


i'd like to be my old self again (but i'm still trying to find it)

by fakecharliebrown



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Introspection, M/M, Major Character Injury, Menstruation, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Kita Shinsuke, Nonbinary Suna Rintarou, Past Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu, Personal Growth, Platonic Relationships, Post-Break Up, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Male Character, Trans Miya Osamu, he gets better tho dw, yknow aside from the blatant lgbt propaganda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27865661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecharliebrown/pseuds/fakecharliebrown
Summary: Abruptly, in the middle of a story about one of the more annoying customers Osamu’s had to deal with that week, Atsumu watches Osamu do a funny thing with his fingers and realizes—They don’t have the same mannerisms anymore.or; a story of finding oneself, told in two parts.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 20
Kudos: 109





	i'd like to be my old self again (but i'm still trying to find it)

**Author's Note:**

> title from all too well by taylor swift :,)

Abruptly, in the middle of a story about one of the more annoying customers Osamu’s had to deal with that week, Atsumu watches Osamu do a funny thing with his fingers and realizes—

They don’t have the same mannerisms anymore. 

Once upon a time, when they were children, the two of them were practically indistinguishable. They both bit their lips the same way, they both fiddled with their hands the same way, they both fidgeted in their seats the same way. The only way to tell them apart—and it only worked if one knew to look—was in their eyes: Osamu’s eyes were droopier than Atsumu’s. Always have been. 

Atsumu reaches out and grabs Osamu’s hand, his fingers curling around Osamu’s and pulling Osamu farther across the counter than he’d originally been leaning. Osamu cuts himself off with a grunt, frowning down at his twin. 

“The fuck’re ya doin’?” he drawls, tugging insistently on his hand. It takes Atsumu a moment to remember himself, to remember what he’s doing, but when he does he drops Osamu’s hand like it’s burning him and jerks back. Osamu huffs, rubbing his knuckles where Atsumu had grabbed them—probably a bit too tightly, Osamu’s always complaining about Atsumu’s bruising touch—and raises an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

Atsumu takes a moment to reply. “Nothin’,” he grunts. “I dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

Osamu squints at him, before he rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Idiot.”

“Jerk,” Atsumu shoots back, but it falls flat even to his own ears. He ignores the odd look Osamu sends his way. 

Osamu reaches beneath the counter for a rag and begins to polish the counter around Atsumu, furrowing his brow. This is a mannerism Atsumu recognizes. 

“What’s on yer mind?” he asks, shelving the topic of Osamu’s new habits for another time, most likely when Atsumu is lying awake at night unable to fall asleep. And because he still knows how to read Osamu—for the most part, that is—Atsumu can tell that Osamu is nervous about something by the way his shoulders hunch and his fingers curl. Osamu’s never been a fighter, that was always Atsumu, but whenever he’s nervous or uncomfortable or upset in some way, he has a tendency to curl his fingers into fists.

“I have to tell ya somethin’,” Osamu starts, and his voice sounds odd, like he’s intentionally keeping it devoid of all inflection. Atsumu’s gut twists—he’s only heard this tone a handful times in their lives, and it’s never been followed by an easy conversation. 

(The day Osamu came out and the day he quit volleyball are the only times Atsumu can remember. He isn’t sure there’s any more than that.)

“What is it?” Atsumu asks. 

Osamu presses his lips into a thin line. He reaches up and fiddles with the brim of his hat, pulling it lower over his eyes. “Ya gotta promise ya won’t be mad, ‘kay? I don’t want ya to go stormin’ out or anythin’.”

Atsumu frowns. “Spit it out, ‘Samu. Yanno I don’t like it when ya get all weird on me.”

Osamu hesitates for less than a second before he looks up and blurts, “Kita ‘n I are datin’.”

Atsumu’s mouth goes dry. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like he’s in his twenties—he feels like a child, a teenager all over again. He’s talking to Osamu, scheming all the ways he’ll romance their new volleyball captain, and Osamu is listening with a strange glint in his eyes that fades over time that Atsumu never pays any real mind to. 

Maybe he should’ve.

Atsumu feels seventeen again, down to the heartache in his chest he’d felt when Kita dumped him. 

Atsumu’s never taken well to change. He thinks it comes with being a twin, with being born into a lifelong series of joint-decisions. Osamu’s always handled it better than Atsumu, and Atsumu privately suspects it’s because Osamu was born into a life of questioning his identity and his gender. Atsumu’s never had to wonder who he is, and maybe—

Maybe it’s because of that he doesn’t really know. 

“‘Tsumu?” Osamu asks. Atsumu is suddenly aware of how painfully silent it has become within the shop. 

Atsumu shifts. He opens his mouth to say something, then he closes it. 

“I got practice,” he lies, pushing away from the counter. Osamu frowns, looking like there’s a reply on the tip of his tongue. Something flashes in his eyes, something almost—it can’t be sad, can it? What does  _ he  _ have to be sad about? He’s the one dating the person that broke Atsumu’s heart. He’s the one betraying the twin code. He doesn’t have the  _ right  _ to be sad. 

Atsumu reaches the door before Osamu says anything. Even then, all Osamu mutters is, “See ya later.”

It’s dissatisfying. Atsumu wanted him to say more. But Atsumu also has a feeling that there really isn’t anything he  _ could’ve  _ said that wouldn’t have been a let-down. 

Atsumu sighs and exits the shop. The brisk morning air accompanies him on his walk to the train station. 

Even the freezing wind feels like a better companion than Osamu.

-

Atsumu doesn’t like being twin brothers. 

He never says it, and Osamu suspects Atsumu wouldn’t even know what to do with himself should Osamu ever leave him alone, but Osamu can tell in the way he carries himself—he doesn’t like being part of a matching set. Atsumu wants to be a star. Atsumu wants to be the center of attention. A lifetime of shared spotlights has festered a certain bitterness within him that Osamu knows Atsumu isn’t even aware of.

To be truthful, Osamu doesn’t think Atsumu knows about most of his own deep-seated emotions. Atsumu doesn’t pay attention to things like that when he doesn’t have to—Osamu privately thinks Atsumu must have a volleyball for a brain. 

It wasn’t always like this, and Osamu can’t tell if the change occurred because they simply grew up and matured and the novelty of having a duplicate wore off, or if—

Osamu cuts off his own train of thought. Atsumu may be a rat bastard, but Osamu doesn’t think he has it in him to be angry at Osamu for coming out. For being trans, for turning the two of them into carbon copies. 

Atsumu couldn’t. 

Osamu takes a swig from his water bottle, wincing at the lukewarm temperature. He lifts his gaze from the gymnasium floor to watch his idiot brother across the court, where he’s currently trying to practice serve receives (and failing miserably). Osamu’s supposed to be working on serve receives, too, but his gut is twisting in an all-too familiar way, and he knows that exerting himself like that today would only make things worse for himself. As much as he hates the attention that comes with sitting out, Osamu isn’t a complete idiot when it comes to his health (unlike his twin).

They really are different, when he thinks about it. Too different, especially when he considers the fact that Osamu based everything he is based off of the person Atsumu was when Osamu came out. They’re twins. They’re supposed to have the same mannerisms and habits, right? They’re supposed to do the same things. It was different before Osamu came out, because Osamu was the girl twin and Atsumu was the boy twin and therefore they were different, even if they had the same face. But now they’re both boy twins, so they aren’t all that different anymore, which means they’re supposed to be the exact same. 

That’s how it works. 

(Right?)

Osamu blinks, scrubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. There’s a headache building behind his temples that he doesn’t appreciate, something the ambient noises of volleyball practice aren’t helping. He considers leaving—coach probably wouldn’t mind—but he really doesn’t want to deal with any criticism Atsumu throws his way when the other twin arrives home.

Sighing, Osamu blinks out at the courts and watches as Kita approaches Atsumu, their gait relaxed and confident. Atsumu stiffens as Kita draws near, something that makes Osamu snicker. Atsumu likes to act tough, but he’s so easily intimidated by Kita, it’s laughable. Granted, Osamu’s intimidated by Kita, too, but Osamu likes to think he’s at least a little less obvious about it.

Kita first places a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder—a gesture that looks funny considering how much shorter than Atsumu Kita is—then onto the ball Atsumu is holding in front of his chest. They gently reposition Atsumu’s torso and his arms, miming the motions for a proper serve receive. Osamu squints, furrowing his brows slightly. Is Atsumu  _ blushing _ ? 

A weight settles onto the bench beside Osamu, drawing his attention away from the team captain and his idiot brother. Osamu glances to his left, only to find Suna slouched on the seat next to him, staring at their nails with narrowed eyes. 

Osamu gazes at them for a moment longer, before he turns away and begins to pick at the chipping, painted logo on the water bottle. Flecks of black paint fall to the floor at his feet.

“How come you’re sitting out?” Suna asks, and Osamu blinks. His gut twists, this time from anxiety and not his traitorous anatomy. 

“Don’t feel good,” Osamu grunts, discreetly avoiding eye contact. It’s easy to avoid eye contact when he talks to Suna; Suna doesn’t ever seem to look up from their hands, their phone, their feet when they talk to people. Osamu doesn’t really mind it—everybody has their eccentricities. He just chalks it up to one of those things Suna does that can’t be explained, sort of like how one of Atsumu’s things is the way he develops the slightest lisp when he gets overtired. 

“Sucks,” Suna replies, and the two of them lapse back into silence. Neither of them are very talkative, which is probably part of the reason they make such good friends. Osamu doesn’t ask, Suna doesn’t tell, and vice versa. Sitting with Suna is refreshing, when Osamu ordinarily spends so much of his time around someone as loud and brash as Atsumu. Osamu loves his brother, but he doesn’t think he was made for loud and brash the same way Atsumu was.

Osamu feels his eyes begin to drift around the gym, examining all of his friends and teammates and coaches. The coach and the manager are talking quietly by the door of the gym, the manager giggling sweetly in response to a joke the coach has made. Aran and Gin are working on receives on the court opposite Kita and Atsumu, Aran bumping it up every time Gin serves. Atsumu is still working with Kita, though Kita’s moved on to serving, instead of demonstrating. Osamu watches Atsumu miss a receive once, twice, three times, before the fourth missed serve hits him in the face and he falls onto his ass. 

“Idiot,” Suna drawls. Osamu blinks and glances at them, but they’re watching Atsumu and Kita. Suna tilts their head to the side, narrowing their eyes. “Is he blushing?”

“Looks like it,” Osamu replies. 

Suna snorts, rolling hs eyes. “Dumbass. He doesn’t have a chance with Kita; they’re way out of his league.”

“Garbage cans are out of his league,” Osamu retorts. “Still, the girls all flock to him.” 

“They’re blinded by the lights reflecting off of his hair,” Suna says. “Speaking of—what color even is that? Did he just not leave the bleach in long enough?”

“Nah,” Osamu says. “He’s just fuckin’ stupid. Thought it looked cool.”

Suna wrinkles their nose. “He was wrong.”

“When isn’t he?” Osamu deadpans.

They lapse into silence again, but Osamu doesn’t take his eyes off of Atsumu and Kita. Something strange settles in his torso, too high up to be considered a typical period pain. Kita smiles softly when Atsumu gets a serve receive right, and Atsumu is so caught off guard that the ball he’s just bumped up falls directly back down onto his head. Atsumu’s cry of pain elicits a laugh from Kita, and Atsumu’s face burns at the same time Osamu’s gut churns. 

Suna squints at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess Atsumu isn’t the only Miya twin crushing on Kita.”

Osamu huffs and rolls his eyes, forcing his gaze away from Kita and his twin. “We ain’t the same person, yanno.” 

“I know that,” Suna dismisses, picking at the black nail polish on their ring finger. “But do  _ you _ ?”

Osamu’s mouth goes dry. He takes a swig from his water bottle, and pointedly doesn’t respond.

-

The rest of the team is already changing in the locker room when Atsumu arrives for practice. He isn’t late, but he’s later than he usually is, which gets him odd looks from the other members of the MSBY Black Jackals as he crosses to his locker. Atsumu is notorious for being early, for being insanely dedicated even though he is an idiot, as the others like to tell him.

Atsumu’s locker is nestled between Bokuto’s and Meian’s. Meian is always finished changing first, and today is no different—his locker’s closed and Meian himself is nowhere to be found, so Atsumu guesses he’s already in the gym. Bokuto, however, is known for taking the longest to change, primarily because he’s so easily distracted. Today, as Astumu fiddles with the combination on his locker, Bokuto is standing in front of his own open locker, his shirt halfway over his head, and his phone clutched in his hands. His tongue pokes out of his mouth slightly as he focuses on typing a text message, his eyes bright.

“Akaashi?” Atsumu guesses. Bokuto jerks, practically chucking his phone back into his locker. 

“Tsum-Tsum!” he chirps. “You’re late! Why are you late?”

Atsumu frowns. “No reason,” he lies. “Traffic was bad.”

“You don’t drive,” Sakusa points out, walking behind the two of them on his way to the entrance to the gym. 

“Fuck off,” Atsumu calls, but there’s no heat behind it as there usually is. His argument with Osamu—if it could even be called that—hasn’t left his mind, even after he’s been away from the shop for an hour. 

Was it an argument? Does it count as an argument when they didn’t even fight? The fact that they  _ didn’t  _ fight is possibly what freaks Atsumu out the most; the two of them always fight. Even about the tiniest things, their disagreements always escalate into sharp jabs and tongues cracking like whips. Sometimes, it even comes to physical blows. So why didn’t they fight today? Why was Osamu so sad? So resigned? Why didn’t Atsumu feel like telling Osamu any of the nasty, bitter things sitting in his mouth, scraping his teeth, ruminating on his tastebuds? 

Why didn’t they care?

For as long as Atsumu can remember, for as long as Osamu has been  _ Osamu _ , possibly even longer, fighting is how the two of them work through it. They fight, and they hurt each other, and then they cool off for an hour before Atsumu invites Osamu to play volleyball with him, or Osamu invites Atsumu to make dinner with him, and all the anger goes away. They have to fight, if they ever want to be able to get past this. 

But Atsumu doesn’t know if he even wants to get past this. This is a betrayal, and Osamu knows it. Osamu knows how much Kita had hurt Atsumu—he was there for all the tears. Hell, he ran his hands through Atsumu’s hair when Atsumu cried on his lap, he let Atsumu sleep in his bed for weeks after Kita dumped him because he knew that Atsumu was so broken up about it. 

“Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto calls, a slight pinch between his eyebrows. Atsumu snaps out of his thoughts, yanking his sweatshirt over his head to change into practice clothes. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Got distracted.”

Bokuto grins. “That’s okay! I get distracted all the time. I’m distracted right now!”

Atsumu huffs a breathy laugh. “Just text Akaashi, will ya?” he says. “I won’t tell no one.”

“That’s a double negative,” Sakusa points out. 

“I thought ya were leavin’,” Atsumu snaps.

“I am,” Sakusa replies. “But I couldn’t resist the urge to make you look like an idiot.”

“Last week ya said I didn’t need help doin’ that,” Atsumu retorts.

Sakusa shrugs, reaching for the doorknob with a slightly trembling hand. He’s been getting better about his germophobia, but Atsumu can still tell there are times when Sakusa wants to practice inside of a hazmat suit. “I still stand by that. But tormenting you is fun.”

He leaves before Atsumu can stop squawking for long enough to snap back.

“Atsumu!” Hinata calls, bouncing over to where Atsumu’s still wearing sweatpants. Bokuto has pulled out his phone again, half inside of his t-shirt. A quick glance at the screen confirms that Bokuto is, in fact, texting Akaashi, and probably always was. Atsumu looks down at Hinata, unable to keep the grin off of his face. Hinata’s smile is contagious—no matter how bad Atsumu’s mood, Hinata never fails to make him smile. 

“Whatcha need, Shouyou?” Atsumu asks, reaching into his locker for his shorts. 

“Let’s do serve receives!" Hinata crows, bouncing excitedly on his toes. Atsumu falters, banging his knuckles against his locker. He hisses, mumbling a curse under his breath as he pulls his shorts the rest of the way out of the locker. 

Atsumu’s already sour mood darkens. Serve receives aren’t even anything special; he’s done them a million times with Hinata alone, nevermind all the others on the team. Serve receives shouldn’t remind him of Kita. 

“Atsumu?” Hinata asks, squinting up at him. “How come you’re so distracted today? Did you stay up late again?”

Atsumu huffs, his cheeks warming. “No,” he lies. Even so, his poor sleeping habits aren’t responsible for Atsumu’s funk today. He knows exactly why his brain can’t seem to stay grounded. But Hinata doesn’t need to see every skeleton hiding in Atsumu’s closet. “Ya wanna do serve receives again?”

Hinata nods, happily following along with Atsumu’s conversation redirect. “Yep! I think I’m finally gonna be able to get one of your fancy  _ fwoosh  _ hybrids.”

“Please,” Atsumu drawls. “If anythin’, it’s a  _ wham.” _

Hinata tilts his head to the side. “Are you sure? I feel like  _ wham  _ and  _ bam  _ are too direct impact-y to be something that’s a hybrid of a jump float.”

“Yer wrong,” Atsumu informs him. “Now go away ‘n lemme change.”

“Okay!” Hinata chirps. “I’ll go get the court set up!”

Atusmu watches him go, before he turns back to his locker and sighs. He closes his eyes, breathing deep, and willing all thoughts of Osamu away from his brain before he bends down to pull off his sweatpants and put on his shorts. Osamu doesn’t exist here. Osamu isn’t his brother here. 

Osamu is dead to him.

-

The heating pad is uncomfortably warm on Osamu’s midsection, but turning it down or taking it off makes the pain increase one hundred fold, so Osamu just groans softly and attempts to reposition his body into a more comfortable position. He’s already contorted his body into positions he didn’t even known he was flexible enough to achieve, but the pain only relieves for a second or two before it’s back, and he’s getting really, really sick of this. Even the stupid YouTube video blaring on his phone screen isn’t enough to take his mind off of it. 

The door to the twins’ shared bedroom bursts open, and Osamu lifts his head just enough to see Atsumu standing in the doorway, a thoroughly conflicted expression on his face. Atsumu stands there for another moment, before he drags himself into the room and slams the door shut behind him. He trudges over to Osamu’s bed, then flops face-first onto the bed directly across Osamu’s gut, prompting a pained gasp from Osamu. Osamu lifts a leg to knee him in the side, at the same time Atsumu shifts. 

“Why’s yer stomach so hot?” he asks. “Are ya on fire under that dumb blanket?”

Osamu knees him again, harder this time. He hopes it leaves a bruise on Atsumu’s stupid ribs. “Why the fuck do ya think?” he demands. Atsumu pushes himself to sit up, resting on his elbows on the bed. He frowns, thinking for several moments. It takes a second for realization to dawn on his face before he rolls off of Osamu’s bed onto the floor. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Osamu just grunts, turning back to his video.

Atsumu rubs his side, frowning up at the ceiling. “‘Samu?” he calls from the floor. 

“Whaddya want?” Osamu asks.

Atsumu huffs, pouting slightly. It isn’t one of his usual pouts—those are fabricated expressions made to get Atsumu what he wants. This face is something else. Genuine, or maybe as genuine as Atsumu gets. There’s something troubling him. Osamu wonders if it has anything to do with what happened at practice earlier that afternoon, when Atsumu was clearly falling all over himself just because Kita smiled at him. Damn fool. 

“Have ya ever had a crush?” Atsumu asks, after several beats pass in silence.

Osamu frowns. “What’s it to ya?” 

Atsumu whines softly. “I jus’ wanna know.”

“No,” Osamu tells him. “I ain’t had a crush yet.”

Atsumu is quiet for a moment. “I think I got a crush.”

“Oh?” Osamu replies, finally pausing his video and rolling over onto his side, clutching the heat pad close to his gut. 

“On Kita,” Atsumu confesses. “Which is dumb, ‘cause they’re too cool for me ‘n also they’re the team cap’n so they’d prob’ly be all ‘teammates shouldn’ date ‘cause ‘s bad for morale when they break up’ but like. I think I love ‘em.” 

Osamu’s eyes widen slightly. He’d known Atsumu had a crush—that much was blatantly obvious. But love?  _ Real _ love? Osamu didn’t know Atsumu could love anything that wasn’t volleyball. 

Much less the person Osamu has a crush on.

“‘Samu?” Atsumu asks, his voice small. “How come ya ain’t sayin’ anythin’?”

“‘M tired,” Osamu lies. 

Atsumu presses his lips into a thin line, fiddling with his fingers. He spins his fingertips around his knuckle as if he’s twisting a nonexistent ring, his expression morphing into something conflicted. “‘M I dumb to be in love with Kita?”

Osamu face burns, his gut burns, everything burns. He can’t tell how much is because of the heating pad and how much is just because he feels like his heart is melting a little more with every passing second. 

“Dunno,” he finally says. “I ain’t ever been in love.”

Atsumu whines softly, but he doesn’t say anything. Osamu lets the silence linger for a moment, two moments, three, before he sighs and resumes the YouTube video. The person on the screen is showing him how to make some complex dessert, but Osamu can’t focus anymore. 

Osamu is a liar. He’s had a crush before. He’s had lots of crushes before. And almost every single one of them was on a person  _ Atsumu _ was already dating. Sometimes, Osamu can’t tell if he has his own taste or if he just copied Atsumu’s, the same way he copied everything else his twin does. 

Kita had been the exception. Kita was the one. Osamu might’ve considered confessing to Kita, had none of this ever happened. 

Osamu sighs again, but this time it's bitter. Hurt. 

Kita is just another addition to a long, long,  _ long  _ list of things Atsumu has beat Osamu to, a long list of things Osamu will never have.

Osamu’s gut twists, pulsing with the waves of heat.

-

Atsumu huffs, running a hand through his hair to smooth his bangs out of his eyes. His hand comes away slick with sweat and a light sheen of hair gel, making Atsumu cringe. He shakes it off, before wiping his hand on his t-shirt and jogging off of the court toward his water bottle. Serve receives with Hinata are ruthless; Hinata doesn’t seem to have an off-switch when it comes to volleyball practice, and Atsumu has an inability to back down from a challenge, which always results in Atsumu nearly puking on the court before someone has the good sense to stop them. This time, it’s in the form of Bokuto asking to bench-press Hinata to show Sakusa that he can. 

Chugging his water, Atsumu tips his head back and closes his eyes against the onslaught of the fluorescent lights overhead. The ambient noises of practice filter in and out of his head, the high squeaking of shoes against the floor and the low pitches of conversation on the opposite courts. It’s a welcome form of white noise, after so many consecutive days, weeks, months hearing it on an endless loop. 

For a moment, Atsumu’s perfected focus slips, and he wonders if Osamu has called or texted since Atsumu left the shop that morning. He wonders if Osamu has apologized, if Osamu even thinks he needs to. Osamu has to see that what he’s doing is wrong. 

Right?

A strange tugging sensation in Atsumu’s gut makes his conviction falter. Osamu is wrong, because he has to be. Dating the person who broke Atsumu’s heart, even if it was in high school, can’t possibly be right.

But if Osamu isn’t wrong, then that would make Atsumu wrong. And Atsumu can’t be wrong. Storming out can’t be wrong. Refusing to support his brother’s relationship can’t be wrong. Hating his brother for dredging up all of these unpleasant feelings can’t be wrong. 

Footsteps approach. Atsumu opens his eyes, tips his head down, and glances over to see who it is. A familiar flash of orange hair catches his eyes, and Atsumu wills away all the bitterness and negativity stewing within him. He prays for the sunshine-y smile he can’t resist, begs any listening deity to let Hinata smile bright enough to nullify the storm brewing inside of him. 

“Hi, Atsumu!” Hinata chirps. “Are you ready to get back to practice?”

Atsumu chuckles dryly. “Didya have fun with Bokkun and Omi-Omi?” 

Hinata beams. The corners of Atsumu’s mouth uptick just slightly. “Yeah! Bokuto did twenty reps bench-pressing me!” 

Atsumu laughs at the glee on Hinata’s face. There’s nothing like a Hinata smile to make him feel better. 

“Think ‘M gonna hafta sit the rest of this practice out,” Atsumu tells the shorter man. Hinata’s eyebrows pinch together, stitched with concern. “Not feelin’ too great.” Which isn’t a lie, per se. It’s just not the whole truth.

Hinata frowns up at him. “Are you sick? You shouldn’t practice when you’re sick! You shouldn’t play at all when you’re sick—it’ll only make you feel worse." 

“I know,” Atsumu nods. “Hit lotsa serve receives for me, ‘kay?” He holds up a fist for Hinata to bump, which the shorter male happily reciprocates.

“You bet!” he cheers. Atsumu smiles softly, at the same time Bokuto calls out Hinata’s name from the other side of the gym. 

“I think Bokkun would like to work with ya,” Atsumu tells him. Hinata glances over his shoulder, waving to Bokuto to signal he’s heard. He starts to run off, before he falters. Spinning on his heel, Hinata sprints back over to Atsumu and throws his arms around Atsumu’s waist, nearly knocking the wind out of him. 

“Feel better, Atsumu!” Hinata exclaims, squeezing Atsumu’s midsection just slightly before he releases him and runs off again, all before Atsumu can even manage to return the embrace. 

Atsumu’s face burns. He wonders if he really is sick after all. 

-

When Osamu came out before middle school started, his father stopped looking at him the same way. There was a certain light that disappeared from his eyes, a light that wasn’t present when he looked at Atsumu. He was supportive, worked to make sure Osamu was comfortable and happy with his name, his legal information, his school registrations. 

But he didn’t treat Osamu the same way. Osamu never understood why. 

And when Osamu started to transition, there seemed to be a universal expectation for him to be just like Atsumu. It was easier, too, to base Osamu’s new habits and tendencies off of all of Atsumu’s. Atsumu was the boy twin, after all. If Osamu wanted to be treated like a boy, then shouldn’t he act the same way?

Osamu sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, wincing as he sits up. His gut still hurts, his inner organs seemingly tied into eighteen different knots. For just a moment, Osamu considers not going to school at all that day. 

Atsumu is already gone from the bedroom, Osamu’s alarm blaring quietly from his phone. Briefly, Osamu wonders what Atsumu is doing up so early—usually, Osamu is the one who has to drag Atsumu out of bed. 

There’s an odd weight resting on Osamu’s chest he isn’t entirely familiar with. It feels a little like the weight he used to wear when he had his gender identity kept under wraps, still pretending to be the daughter or sister or girl the rest of the world expected of him. 

The door opens gently, slowly. His father stands on the other side, something Osamu was completely expecting. Atsumu doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body. His father fidgets, gazing at him awkwardly. His eyes linger on the heating pad discarded next to Osamu’s bed. “Are ya feelin’ okay? Goin’ to school today?”

“‘Course,” Osamu grunts. “‘M just ‘bout to get up.” 

His father hesitates. He never seems to know how to treat Osamu at this time of the month, spends the week walking on eggshells more often than not. Osamu wishes his father wasn’t so cowardly; he’s a nice man, a good dad, but—Osamu can tell he prefers Atsumu over Osamu. 

Osamu wonders if it would be this way if Osamu had never come out. 

Then again, most people tend to prefer the original over the knock-off. 

Osamu pauses. Perhaps Suna’s comment from the previous day has some merit, after all. He and Atsumu aren’t the same, Osamu is aware of that. It’s just that sometimes, Osamu looks at his reflection in the mirror and he can’t help but feel dissatisfied, too. 

“Let me know if ya need anythin’,” his father says, backing out of the room and closing the door behind himself. Osamu sighs, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the ends of it. 

Dragging himself out of bed, Osamu tugs off his pajamas and pulls on his school uniform, carefully avoiding any glimpses of his body to keep at least a small amount of the crippling dysphoria at bay. He’ll be late for morning practice at the rate he’s going, but at the moment Osamu really can’t bring himself to care. 

There is a certain itchiness underneath Osamu’s skin that he doesn’t care for, a lingering sense that something is wrong, that  _ he  _ is wrong. Osamu knows the symptoms of his own dysphoria quite well—he just doesn’t like acknowledging it. Acknowledging his dysphoria, acknowledging something is wrong with him, always seems to make it ten times worse. 

Sighing, Osamu snags both his volleyball bag and his bookbag, heading out of his room to grab a quick breakfast before he leaves. Atsumu is still nowhere to be found, which makes Osamu think his brother’s already left for practice. Atsumu only leaves early when he absolutely has to, or when something’s really bothering him. 

It only takes Osamu a moment to remember the conversation from yesterday—Atsumu is in love with Kita. He’s probably going to confess. As annoying as he is, Atsumu is seemingly incapable of cowardice when it comes to his love life. Almost every time he’s ever confessed a crush to Osamu, he went and told his crush the next day. They dated a week, then Osamu had to hold Atsumu while he cried until he was ready to rinse and repeat the vicious cycle. 

Osamu, on the other hand, is much better at appearing unbothered by things like love. Nobody needs to know the feelings Osamu hides inside of him. Not even Atsumu.

The morning air is brisk, and stings when it hits Osamu’s face. Walking to school without Atsumu for once feels odd, but Osamu doesn’t let the sensation of misplacement linger. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets his feet guide him to school with the power of muscle memory, willing away all of the negative emotions stirring within him. 

For a brief moment, as he draws near the school and the gym where morning practice started—he glances at his phone’s clock—twenty-seven minutes ago, Osamu wonders why he doesn’t feel more panicked. There’s the obvious answers: he has bigger things to worry about, the twisting in his gut would’ve forced him to sit out anyway, he’s struggling with other things that are taking up the majority of his attention. But as easy as those excuses are—Osamu doesn’t feel like any of them are quite right. 

If he were Atsumu, he’d be sprinting to make it to practice as soon as he could. No, scratch that—if he were Atsumu, he never would’ve been in this situation to begin with; Atsumu would never let anything make him miss volleyball practice, no matter what it was. Every minute Atsumu can spend playing volleyball is a minute he treasures, a minute he savors. No way would he ever sacrifice any of them for more sleep, for a more leisurely walk, for time to decompress some of the building tension and pounding pain in his gut, in his head.

The realization doesn’t feel as world-shattering as it should:

Osamu doesn’t love volleyball as much as Atsumu. 

By itself, it’s not such a scandalous thing. But coupled with the fact that there is  _ nothing  _ Atsumu loves more than volleyball, coupled with the knowledge that there is nothing Atsumu wouldn’t do to play just one more game of volleyball, coupled with the awareness that volleyball, for better or worse, is a fundamental piece of who Atsumu is as a person, it leaves Osamu feeling like he’s been narrowly missed by a car in the middle of a busy street.

He feels open, he feels exposed, he feels vulnerable. He feels like there are pieces of him missing. He feels like there is nothing wrong with him at all. He doesn’t know what to feel, so much so that his sneakers stutter to a stop on the pavement beneath his feet and Osamu stalls entirely. With each passing second, he is increasingly aware that he is missing volleyball practice. With each passing second, he is aware that he doesn’t  _ care.  _

Volleyball is a part of Atsumu’s soul. Osamu always assumed it was a part of his, too. If it isn’t—where does that leave him?  _ Who  _ does that leave him? 

When Osamu transitioned, he based his new identity off of Atsumu’s pre-existing personality and mannerisms. All that he is came from all that Atsumu was. Osamu is Atsumu’s duplicate, his shadow. He always has been.

But there, standing in the middle of a deserted street, so early that the sun has barely risen, Osamu is twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine minutes late for morning practice, and he doesn’t care at all. He is thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two minutes late for practice, and Atsumu loves volleyball more than Osamu. 

He is thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five minutes late, and Osamu doesn’t know who he is anymore. 

Osamu’s hands clench into fists where they are tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He tips his head back toward the sky and closes his eyes, and feels the crisp morning air caress his face and smooth out the worry-formed creases near his eyebrows, near his mouth. 

The realization that Osamu is not who he thought he was isn’t as earth-shattering as it should be.

-

When Atsumu arrives back at his apartment, he takes three steps toward the couch before he trips over a box he’s yet to unpack, and he face plants onto the carpeted floor. Scowling, Atsumu pushes himself up onto his elbows to glare at the offending cardboard, sitting up. He staggers to his feet, deciding he should probably do something with the box. Carrying it over to the table, Atsumu dumps the box down before dumping himself into a chair, ripping open the tape-sealed box to see what’s inside. He didn’t label any of his boxes when he moved, something Osamu criticized him for, but Atsumu simply didn’t see the point; if he looked through enough boxes, he was sure to find whatever it was he needed.

And besides—he hadn’t planned on still having boxes to unpack after months living in the apartment. 

Atsumu reaches in blindly for whatever is on top, and frowns when his hand meets something wrapped in bubble-wrap. It’s not very large, nor is it very heavy, so Atsumu pulls it free from the confines of the box to see just  _ what  _ it is, what past-Atsumu wanted to protect. 

It’s a picture frame. A small one, one that fits snugly on a night stand between the lamp and the charging phone. Atsumu would know—this is the framed photo that sat on his night stand for eight years.

It’s an old photo, a photo of Atsumu and Osamu—the dynamic duo, as their father used to call them. It’s old, old enough that Atsumu doesn’t even think they’re twelve years old in this photo. It must be from right around the time Osamu came out and chopped all of his hair off; Osamu took it upon himself to purge any and all evidence of himself prior to his coming out and subsequent transition. 

The photo is a candid, one taken while on a family picnic that their father snapped when the boys weren’t paying attention. The twins were sitting next to each other at a picnic table, Osamu sitting normally on the bench while Atsumu kneeled in an effort to tower over his younger brother. Atsumu’s in the process of ruffling Osamu’s hair, a vindictive grin on his face while Osamu scowls and attempts to swat the offending appendage away.

It isn’t a nice picture. Truthfully, Atsumu doesn’t really know why he’s clung to it all these years. But every time he tried to replace it, or throw it away, or even move it away from his night stand, a small part of him didn’t want to. A small part of him wanted to cling to the joy of childhood, the innocence of childhood, the inexplicable bond that they had when it was just the two of them and there was nothing driving a cavernous ravine between them. 

When they were one and the same, twin brothers. 

They aren’t the same anymore. Atsumu knows this; he’s known for a while. He’s known since the day Osamu said that he was a boy, and not a girl. He’s known since the day Osamu told him he wasn’t going to pursue volleyball after high school. He’s known since the day they fought about it, since the day Osamu punched him in the face and then yanked the flooring out from underneath Atsumu’s feet by saying  _ I don’t care about volleyball as much as you do  _ and following it with  _ I never have.  _

Since the day they lost their last game at nationals, and Osamu didn’t even seem to care. 

That’s an exaggeration—he did care, in his own Osamu type of way. Osamu is just as competitive as Atsumu, and he hated to lose. Even if he doesn’t love volleyball as much as Atsumu, the thrill of playing, the thrill of  _ winning,  _ is likely part of the reason it took him until high school to notice.

And when they lost at nationals, when they lost their last game in their last year of high school, Osamu was right there next to Atsumu, and Atsumu could tell by the look on his face that Osamu was just as frustrated as he was. But there had been something else in Osamu’s eyes, too, something more like—

Relief. Like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, Osamu seemed to stand a little straighter, seemed to hold his head a little higher, seemed to have a certain light in his eyes Atsumu had never seen before. 

Atsumu has always known that he and his brother are not the same. He just didn’t care to acknowledge it.

But now it’s staring him in the face. He saw it with his own eyes not even a full twenty-four hours ago—Osamu has adopted different mannerisms. Atsumu wonders, for a moment, who Osamu learned them from. Is it his favorite customer, the one who shows up to visit Bokuto at practice all the time? Is it Suna, or Aran, or another one of their old friends?

Is it Kita?

Does that matter?

Atsumu’s chest still aches at the thought of Kita. Their relationship hadn’t ended well, after nearly a year of dating. Atsumu asked Kita out in the very beginning of his second year, their third, and they dumped him just before their graduation. Atsumu had been heartbroken—he’d moped for days and days and days, so long that even their father, who was known for not paying much attention to the two of them, started wondering why the apartment had gone so quiet. 

Atsumu sniffles, rubs his nose, and pulls out the next photo frame in the box. It’s a more recent photo this time—early high school or late middle school. Atsumu’s hair hasn’t been bleached yet, and there’s still a certain amount of baby fat clinging to Osamu’s cheeks that he lost by the end of their first year. The two of them are standing outside of the apartment building, dressed in crisp school uniforms, boasting toothy smiles and freshly-purchased book bags. Atsumu’s arm is slung around Osamu’s shoulders, while Osamu appears much stiffer than Atsumu. He always has—it wasn’t until they graduated that Osamu finally seemed to relax a bit and grow more comfortable being in his own skin, his own body.

Even here, in this photo, Atsumu can see it—they’ve already lost what they once had, in the first photo. It was blatantly obvious what Osamu was doing when he first transitioned; Atsumu would’ve had to have been the most oblivious person alive to not notice that his brother was copying his every move, every mannerism.

Atsumu remembers it going to his head. He used to think he was special, thought he was cool, because his brother thought he was someone to emulate, someone to become a duplicate of. 

Eventually, though, it became less of a bragging right and more of a—nuisance isn’t the right word for it, but neither is constant. Because it never really was  _ constant;  _ there were always times when Osamu’s true personality shone through, when Osamu was quieter than Atsumu, when Osamu scratched his wrist instead of running a hand through his hair as Atsumu would've, when Osamu clammed up where Atsumu would’ve shouted. But having someone watching your every move, having someone practically living inside of your shadow—it wasn’t annoying in the way that it should’ve been. 

A part of Atsumu thinks he found it comforting, to always know that Osamu was there. After all, if Osamu wanted to be just like Atsumu, then surely he would go everywhere Atsumu did. And if they were always together, then Atsumu always had someone with him who would be there for him, someone to be on his side.

Atsumu has always liked being in charge. He’s never liked having people make decisions for him, especially not the big stuff that really matters. He didn’t like it that Kita chose to end the relationship, didn’t like it that Osamu chose to leave volleyball and, in the process, leave Atsumu behind. 

Atsumu pulls out the next photograph, and nearly drops it onto the table when he glances at it. It’s an old one, one Atsumu hasn’t looked at or acknowledged in years. He remembers shoving it into some drawer years ago, and leaving it there until he moved. Even when he moved, Atsumu transported it upside down and never looked at the faces smiling up at him from behind the small glass pane. 

It’s one of the only photos of himself and Kita Atsumu could never bring himself to get rid of, in part because this one had been a gift from Kita. On their very first date, Atsumu brought Kita to a festival, and took a selfie with them underneath the warm glow of the lanterns. Kita had seemed fond of the photo, but Atsumu hadn’t realized just  _ how  _ fond they were until their six-month anniversary arrived and Kita handed the photo to Atsumu in a custom frame with a small  _ I love you  _ scrawled onto the back in Kita’s neat handwriting. 

Atsumu’s heart pounds in his chest. He smooths his thumb over the edge of the frame, feeling his eyes begin to sting with unshed tears. 

Kita is not looking at the camera in the photo. They are looking at Atsumu, who is grinning widely at the camera with his tongue out—why did he always stick his tongue out in high school selfies?—and they are staring up at him with so much affection in their eyes it’s almost suffocating. Kita had always been so gentle, so soft, so loving. Atsumu misses them like a vice, misses them like he would miss breathing, misses them like he would miss food or water or sleep. He misses them like the sky misses the sun in the dead of night, misses them like the desert sand misses the rain.

But Atsumu doesn’t miss Kita like he misses a lover. He misses Kita like he misses a friend, because that’s what they would still be, if he’d never asked them out—friends. Good friends, probably as good of friends as he is with Suna, or Aran, or any of his old teammates. 

He misses Kita. He misses his friend.

He doesn’t love Kita anymore. Not like that. Kita is not the reason Atsumu is upset with his brother—no, Kita was just a convenient excuse. Atsumu is upset with Osamu because Osamu isn’t his carbon copy anymore. And Atsumu doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t Osamu’s twin, Osamu’s role model. 

He and Osamu are not the same anymore. Osamu is not on his side anymore—not the same way he used to be. 

Atsumu is alone now. 

Atsumu needs to learn to be okay with that.

Atsumu glances back down at the photos, at his first love at a festival, his high school smile in front of their apartment, his younger brother sitting next to him on a picnic bench, and he misses the past so much he doesn’t know how he can possibly face the future. 

For as far back as Atsumu can remember, the only thing in his life that has ever stayed constant has been Osamu standing at his side. 

But Osamu left his side years ago, Osamu pulled the rug out from underneath him years ago, and Atsumu thinks he has been falling ever since. 

He wonders if he will ever hit the bottom. 

He wonders how much it will hurt.

There’s a scarf sitting at the bottom of the box—an old one, worn soft from years of love. It’s plaid, ocean blue with streaks of navy and purple and the faintest teal. It belonged to Kita, Atsumu remembers. They forgot it at Atsumu’s house once, what seems like forever ago. 

Atsumu smooths his thumb over its soft surface, and if he begins to sob, the only witnesses will be the ghosts of his past, frozen in time with the snap of a photograph, gazing up at him from discarded photo frames on his kitchen table.

-

“You look different,” Suna declares, plopping themself down beside Osamu on the bench underneath the large tree in the middle of the courtyard. Most people tend to avoid this spot—the tree is known to drop leaves and seeds and other nature-y type things at a moment’s notice, ruining people’s lunches and hairstyles and sometimes even spoiling the cleanliness of their uniforms. But Osamu likes it because it’s quiet, and secluded, and it feels like a small pocket of the universe where the stress of existing doesn’t have to weigh so heavily on him. 

He turns, and blinks at Suna. “What kinda different?”

Suna squints at him, before they turn to face the courtyard and lean back against the tree, allowing their eyes to slip shut. “Can’t put my finger on it.”

Osamu hums and returns to people watching. His classmates aren’t interesting to talk to, or interact with, but they’re fun to observe. Osamu wonders what their hobbies would be, what they do when they aren’t at school. It’s fun to speculate sometimes, seeing as he’ll never know for sure.

“Did you hear what Atsumu did this morning?” Suna asks suddenly, cracking an eye open. 

“No,” Osamu replies. “What happened?”

“He asked Kita out on a date,” Suna informs him. “A real one. To a restaurant and everything.”

Osamu falters. He remembers, of course, the conversation about it. He remembers how Atsumu had stared at the ceiling and confessed that he was in love for real this time—it wasn’t just another one of his crushes. 

He remembers feeling his heart sink, just slightly. He remembers the disappointment of having finally thought he had his own crush, his own feelings. 

And now Atsumu has confessed. 

Osamu doesn’t know why he ever thought Atsumu wouldn’t; Atsumu isn't a coward, like most people are. Atsumu barely cares what other people think of him—what reason would he have to hesitate?

Just this once, Osamu wishes Atsumu was as stupid and wimpy as all of the other people their age. Just this once, Osamu wishes he had something of his  _ own,  _ and he didn’t dedicate his formative years trying to be just like somebody else instead of trying to be himself.

“What did Kita say?” Osamu asks. 

Suna grunts. “That’s the crazy part—they said  _ yes.  _ I didn’t even know they thought of Atsumu as anything more than an annoyance.”

Osamu didn’t, either.

Unbidden, Osamu feels a rush of anger. Anger towards himself, toward Atsumu, toward Kita. Anger at Kita, for accepting Atsumu’s offer. Anger at Atsumu, for being the twin everybody likes more, despite being the more annoying, more brash, more hateable twin. Anger at himself, for failing to ever copy the confidence Atsumu seems to ooze. Anger at himself for failing to act on his feelings first. Anger at himself for not being as good at Atsumu, as confident as Atsumu, as worthy as Atsumu. 

They aren’t the same—he knows that now. But if they aren’t the same, then doesn’t that mean one of them is better than the other? If they can’t be on the same level anymore? Is Osamu the lesser twin? Is that why he’s quieter? More reserved? Why he doesn’t want to pursue a professional volleyball career? Why he doesn’t like the spotlight nearly as much as Atsumu? Because from the day he was born, he was destined to be  _ less _ ? To be _ good enough _ , instead of  _ great _ ? 

To be Osamu, instead of Atsumu?

“You’re being weird,” Suna says, squinting at him. Osamu turns to look at them, tucking his thoughts away on the back burner of his mind. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothin’,” Osamu lies. “Just hopin’ Atsumu doesn’t break Kita’s heart like the dumbass he is.”

Suna doesn’t look like they believe him, but they don’t push the matter any further, and Osamu can’t tell if he’s happy about that.

-

Atsumu lingers outside the door to Onigiri Miya, the early morning breeze nipping his nose. He stuffs his hands into his pockets in hopes of warming them up, but it does little to thaw the icy cold creeping up his fingers. There’s nobody else out on the street this early, but Atsumu can see the light shining out onto the sidewalk that lets him know Osamu has already arrived to open the store. 

His phone buzzes. Atsumu pulls it out, squinting down at the screen, only to see a message from Osamu waiting for him on the lockscreen. 

_ come inside idiot. you’ll attract customers _

Atsumu huffs and stuffs his phone back into his pocket, shoving his way into the shop. He ignores the cheerful jingle of the bell above the door, so used to it by now that he knows how to tune it out. Osamu is standing behind the counter, as he usually is in the morning, shining the plates and stacking them next to his right arm. Atsumu trudges up to the counter and takes his usual seat on the stool, staring up at Osamu with—he can admit it—a childish pout marring his features. 

“What’s that for?” Osamu asks lightly, not even bothering to look at Atsumu. 

“I need Kita’s number,” Atsumu blurts. Osamu blinks, lowering the plate in his hands and turning to look down at Atsumu critically. 

“Yer not tryin’ to steal my datemate, are ya?” he asks, squinting.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “‘Course not,” he spits. “I found somethin’ of theirs I wanna return.”

“Ya haven’t spoken to them in years,” Osamu points out. 

“Ya, and?” Atsumu retorts. Osamu narrows his eyes, before he sighs and shakes his head, reaching into his back pocket for his phone. 

“I’ll give ya their number, but if they don’t wanna talk to ya, that ain’t my problem,” he says, sliding his phone across the counter. Atsumu picks it up and unlocks it easily—Osamu’s had the same password since they were thirteen—before pulling up Kita’s contact and copying the number into his own phone. Once finished, he slides Osamu’s phone back to him and tucks his own back into his pocket. The two of them lapse into silence for several long moments, before Osamu picks up the plate and resumes shining it.

Atsumu presses his lips into a thin line, unsure how he can break the silence. It’s his fault their relationship has become strained like this; if only he hadn’t overreacted when Osamu confessed his relationship, none of this would be happening.

“Yanno,” Osamu starts, and Atsumu whips his head up to look at him. “When I transitioned, I made it a goal of mine to be just like ya. Ya were the boy twin, ‘n I thought that if I wanted to be taken seriously as a boy, I’d hafta act just like ya.”

“I know,” Atsumu replies, his voice choked. “I’da had to have been the dumbest person alive to have not noticed what ya were doin’.”

“Lookin’ back, I think it fucked me up for a while,” Osamu admits. “Lost sight of myself for so many years I didn’t even know if that person still existed.”

Atsumu waits. 

Osamu pauses, furrowing his brow and lowering the plate in his hands. “I never really stopped to think ‘bout what it mighta done to ya.”

Atsumu’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t even know if there’s anything  _ to  _ say. “I got used to ya always bein’ in my shadow,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when ya left me.”

They both fall silent, and they both look at each other with their lips pressed into thin lines, their eyes heavy with years of regret and sadness and a strained bond they might never recover, might never be able to repair, and an understanding seems to pass between the two of them—there is nothing more to be said here. They will both move on with their days, their weeks, their lives, and they will not acknowledge this anymore than they already have. They will spend the rest of their lives aware of what they have lost, the bond they both broke—and they will force themselves to be okay with it, because there’s nothing else to do about it. This conversation, for all intents and purposes, never happened. 

“I should get to practice,” Atsumu says, standing.

Osamu resumes his prep work, nodding slightly. “Try not to get hit with a volleyball.”

Walking out of the restaurant and into the frigid morning air feels simultaneously like a slap in the face and sweet relief. Feeling returns to Atsumu’s fingers, finally, and he wonders if the cold was ever really what made them go numb.

-

It’s Osamu’s turn to stay late after practice and help Kita tidy up. Atsumu is clearly jealous, but Kita just shoos him out of the gym and turns to offer Osamu a small smile once the two of them are alone. Osamu’s traitorous heart flutters in his chest, then seems to splinter with the pain that comes from the knowledge that Kita is dating Osamu’s twin.

“How are ya, Osamu?” Kita asks, pulling out two brooms for them to use. They set to work immediately, while Osamu takes a moment to ponder the question before he begins to sweep. 

“Fine,” he says, for lack of anything else to say. What does Kita care, anyway? Osamu’s not the one they’re in love with, even though he has the same face. 

Kita hums softly. “Yanno, you ‘n Atsumu have the same lyin’ face.”

Osamu stiffens. “We—what?”

Kita straightens up, turning to fix Osamu with a serious look. “Part of takin’ care of oneself is takin’ care of one’s mental health. If yer not properly payin’ attention to yer mental health and yer emotions, ‘M gonna have to talk to the coaches ‘n see ‘bout takin’ ya off the lineup.”

“Ya don’t gotta do that,” Osamu tells them, focusing intently on the gym floor and the dust he’s sweeping into a small pile. “‘M fine, really.” 

He can feel Kita’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t look up. Kita’s quiet for a moment, before they say, “Atsumu’s been tellin’ me he wants to go pro after high school.”

Osamu grunts. “Didya expect any less?”

Kita hums again. “No.” They hesitates. “D’ya think you’ll go pro, too?”

Osamu falters his grip on the broom. He coughs thickly, choking on his own breath. 

“I struck a nerve,” Kita guesses. “Yer not goin’ pro, are ya?”

Silence rings in the gym for several oppressive seconds. 

“No,” Osamu finally manages. “No, ‘M not.”

“That’s okay, y’know,” Kita says, their voice soft. “I’m not plannin’ on goin’ pro, either.”

“Yer not?” Osamu asks, glancing up at Kita from beneath his bangs. Kita shakes their head. 

“I think I’d like to do somethin’ simpler,” Kita admits. “Like rice farmin’.”

Osamu flounders. “I don’t know what I wanna do,” he tells his companion, his grip tightening slightly on the broomstick in his hands. “I just know it ain’t volleyball.”

“That’s okay, too,” Kita replies. “Ya’ve still got time to figure it out.”

Osamu presses his lips into a thin line. 

Kita pauses, humming again. They tend to do that when they’re thinking, or when they're considering how to phrase what they want to say. It’s an endearing habit Osamu’s picked up on. He hopes they never lose it. 

“‘S there a reason ya seem so scared to admit that?” they ask, and Osamu stiffens. Somehow, in a mere couple of minutes of conversation, Kita has managed to cut to the core of all of his fears, his worries, and everything else that’s been plaguing his mind lately. In just a few minutes, Kita has seen his crisis for what it really is, no matter how much Osamu has tried to deflect their attention.

Osamu says nothing. 

Kita tilts their head to the side. “Y’know, just cause yer twins doesn’t mean you ‘n Atsumu gotta be the same all the time.” 

Osamu scoffs. “Ain’t that the definition of twins? The same?” 

“Perhaps in appearance,” Kita agrees. “But not in personality. Not in aspirations.”

Osamu doesn’t know what to say to that. 

Kita seemingly takes his silence for doubt, and continues, “You ‘n Atsumu have never been the same, I hope ya know that.”

“Of course we’re the same,” Osamu bites out, immediately regetting his harsh tone. Kita doesn’t deserve that—he’s only lashing out because he doesn’t like how easily Kita has read him, and that’s not really their fault. 

“No, yer not,” Kita denies. 

“Then what the fuck have I been doing all my life?” Osamu demands. Kita blinks, watching carefully as Osamu deflates. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “‘S just—I tried to be like him, yanno. I tried to do everythin’ he did. So if we ain’t the same, ‘n I just stopped being myself for nothin’, then that means—”

“It doesn’t mean anythin’,” Kita interrupts, “‘cause ya never stopped bein’ yerself. No matter what ya seem to think, I can say for certain that there have always been differences between you ‘n Atsumu.”

“Like what?” Osamu asks. He isn’t entirely sure he wants to know. 

“Yer quieter than Atsumu,” Kita starts. “Yer personality is less combative than Atsumu’s. Yer more willin’ to acquiesce durin’ an argument than Atsumu ever would, and yer more understandin’ of people’s problems, physical and emotional. Yer more adjusted than Atsumu seems to be, and even though Atsumu takes up the spotlight, I can tell—yer just as passionate as he is. I just don’t think it’s a passion for volleyball.” 

Osamu opens and closes his mouth several times. “We ain’t—we’re not the same?”

“No,” Kita agrees. “‘N ya never have been. Somehow, ya just convinced yerself that all of yer good qualities are lesser versions of Atsumu’s, when they aren’t. Neither one you is better than the other; the both of ya are exactly who ya were meant to be. And that’s fine. Ya don’t gotta be the same to love each other.”

Kita straightens up, and offers Osamu a shoulder-pat and a smile. “But ya really should tell Atsumu what yer feelin’,” they tell him. “‘M sure he’d understand.”

Osamu isn’t so certain.

-

Kita agrees to meet Atsumu in a park not far from the gym where he practices. He has about an hour free before the coaches will be expecting him back—somehow, he was able to swindle extra time for lunch.

Atsumu sits patiently waiting, the scarf situated in a paper bag he’s placed next to him on the park bench. The park is a pretty one; there’s a footpath going around it in a large ring, a playground as colorful as a box of crayons on the other side of the park opposite Atsumu’s bench. A pond nearby sports cattails and ducks, as well as lily pads and water lilies. Atsumu watches a frog dive beneath the surface of the water, at the same time a dog being walked on the footpath barks at a bird overhead. Children scream and giggle as they weave between their play structure, their parents yelling for them to be careful, to slow down, to watch where they’re going. 

Atsumu is so caught up in watching the other park-goers, he nearly misses Kita’s arrival. They clear their throat, standing next to his bench with their hands tucked into the pockets of their coat, a cream-colored scarf wrapped around their neck. 

“Hello, Atsumu,” they greet, when he turns to look up at them. Atsumu lifts a hand, starstruck for less than a second before he remembers himself.

They look as lovely as they always did, if not more—their skin has been kissed by the sun out in the rice field, their cheeks rosier than they ever were under the fluorescent gym lights. Their hair is longer, curling at its ends and hanging in front of their eyes just slightly, but it’s still undeniably  _ Kita  _ staring down at him. Their eyes, honey gold, are as warm as a campfire in the middle of the night, as warm as sunlight reflecting off of snow in the dead of winter. Their frame has thinned, gone from lean and muscular to softer and squisher at the curves of their hips, of their waist, but somehow it suits them; they look homier. Gentler. 

Atsumu gazes up at them, and he falls in love with them all over again.

“Here,” Atsumu says, scooting over to make room for Kita on the bench. “Sit.”

Kita does as told, sitting a respectable distance away without making it obvious that they’re trying to put space between the two of them. They smile softly, but it’s more polite than warm, and something about that makes Atsumu’s fragile heart fracture. 

“I didn’t think ya’d wanna see me,” Kita starts, breaking the uncomfortable silence lingering between the two of them. 

Atsumu breathes out. “To be honest,” he starts, “‘M not sure I do.”

Kita hums, but says nothing. Atsumu turns his gaze to the children playing in the distance, the dog-walkers and the joggers and the bikers on the footpath, the small family feeding the ducks down by the pond. The wind whistles a melancholy tune, the soundtrack to a bittersweet reunion Atsumu regrets asking for. 

“We really should’ve gone on dates to the park more,” Kita says. Atsumu glances at them, but they are watching a couple in the distance. “It’s really quite romantic.”

“We weren’t really all that conventional,” Atsumu replies. “Didn’t do a lot of the romantic stuff.”

Kita hums. 

Atsumu pauses. “Didya want to? I didn’t think ya did.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Kita replies. “But I was mostly just happy to have been spendin’ time with ya. Romantic or not.”

“I brought ya yer scarf back,” Atsumu says, for lack of anything else to break the silence with. He lifts the paper bag, holding it out toward Kita. “The blue one. With the purple in it?”

Kita smiles softly, pushing the bag back into Atsumu’s personal bubble. “Keep it,” they say. 

Atsumu falters. “But—I thought ya used to like this one.”

“I did,” Kita agrees. “But I liked it ‘cause it was blue, ‘n ya used to say that was yer favorite color.”

“Oh.” Atsumu lowers the bag into his lap, kneading his thumbs into the sides of it. He stares down at his feet, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

“Is that still yer favorite color?” Kita wonders. “Or did it change since the last time we spoke?”

“It’s yellow now,” Atsumu replies, his voice smaller than he would’ve liked it to be. “How come yer—ya seem so  _ fine.  _ Didn't it—did it at least hurt when ya dumped me?”

“Of course it hurt,” Kita tells him, furrowing their brow just slightly. “I loved ya.”

“Then why’d ya hafta leave?” Atsumu implores, searching Kita’s face for the answers to the questions he’s been asking since his second year of high school when his first love gave him his very first heartbreak. “Why couldn’t we have tried to make it work?”

Kita smiles, but it’s sad at the corners of their mouth, of their eyes. “‘Cause bein’ with ya hurt even more than bein’ without ya.”

Atsumu doesn’t know what to say, so he waits for Kita to say something instead. 

Kita presses their lips into a thin line, hesitating, before they turn to look at Atsumu and say, “I loved ya more than anythin’, when we were datin’,” they pause, their eyes a touch glassy. “But ya didn’t love me the same.”

“Yes I did,” Atsumu argues, but Kita holds up a hand to silence him. 

“We both know that wasn’t true, Atsumu,” they say, their voice dripping with sadness and hurt. Atsumu’s stomach turns at the thought that maybe  _ he’s  _ responsible for the pain in their eyes, in their voice. “When we were together, I loved ya more than anythin’. But you—you loved volleyball more than ya loved me.”

“Volleyball is my passion,” Atsumu says desperately. “Volleyball is all that I  _ am _ .”

Kita smiles, reaching up with a gloved hand to wipe the tears from their eyes before they have a chance to spill over. “No,” they say. “No, it isn’t. Volleyball’s just a part of ya—there’s always been more beneath the surface.”

“How come ya could see that?” Atsumu asks, his voice thick. “When I couldn’t?  _ Can’t _ ?”

“I loved ya,” Kita says simply. “ _ All _ of ya. Not just the volleyball player.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to speak, but finds that he has nothing to say. 

Kita sighs, and pushes themself to their feet. They gaze out at the park for several long moments, before they inhale deeply and turn to smile down at Atsumu. “It was nice seein’ ya, Atsumu. I hope ya find someone who loves volleyball just as much as you do.”

They turn to leave, and Atsumu watches them go for a moment, before his mouth takes over his brain and he calls, “Kita!” 

Kita stops. Turns. Waits. 

Atsumu hesitates, trying to string his next sentence together. “Yer favorite color—is it still maroon?” 

Kita blinks, then smiles just slightly. “No,” they say. “It’s purple now.” They turn and walk away before Atsumu can find his voice again, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the park, clutching a paper bag with his only tether to their shared past, the only reminder of the future he once thought they’d have.

Purple, Atsumu thinks. The color of Osamu’s favorite sweater. 

-

Whenever Atsumu has a bad day, he has a tendency to climb into Osamu’s bed instead of his own at night. Tonight, it’s raining outside their bedroom window, soft pitter-pattering against the window pane. It’s early in the spring season for rain, but Osamu has learned that the weather in his town tends to be as unpredictable as Atsumu’s ever-changing moods. The glow of Osamu’s bedside lamp is all he has to illuminate the pages of his book, soft music playing through his headphones as he turns the page. He’s alone in the room at the moment, Atsumu off somewhere else in the apartment. Last he saw him, Atsumu was laying on the couch texting someone. 

The door opens, but it doesn't slam against the wall the way it normally does when Atsumu enters the room. For a moment, Osamu almost thinks it’s their father, but when he looks up, his twin brother is staring at him from the doorway. Osamu squints at him for a moment, before he scoots over and lifts the edge of his blanket. A rush of relief passes through Atsumu’s features, as he closes the door behind him and crawls into Osamu’s bed, tucking himself entirely underneath the covers. Osamu frowns, poking him once. Atsumu doesn’t move or otherwise react. 

Osamu pokes him again. Again, no response. Osamu sighs, closing his book and sliding down underneath the covers to look at Atsumu. “What are we doin’ down here?” he whispers. 

Atsumu makes a small noise, a mixture of a childish pout and genuine sadness written across his face. 

“C’mon,” Osamu murmurs. “Just talk to me.”

“Kita’s graduatin’ soon,” Atsumu mumbles. He falls silent for a few moments, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

“Okay,” Osamu says slowly. “Ya knew they’d be graduatin’ first; they’re older than us.”

Atsumu huffs. “‘Course I know that,” he spits. He softens suddenly, the frustration draining from his expression. “But—d’ya think they’ll break up with me?”

Osamu falls silent. Truthfully, he doesn’t know—Atsumu and Kita seem quite happy together, have always seemed happy together since they got together months ago, but he’s noticed, in recent weeks, that there’s been an odd glint in Kita’s eyes. Something heavy, something sad. Something that doesn’t belong in the gaze of someone who’s supposed to be happily in love.

“Ya think they’ll dump me,” Atsumu guesses. 

“I didn’t say that,” Osamu argues. 

“But ya didn’t  _ not  _ say that!” Atsumu insists, clenching a fist in the sheets beneath them.

"Don't put words in my mouth,” Osmau huffs. “‘N don’t put words in Kita’s, either! Neither of us are Kita, so neither of us could possibly know what Kita’s gonna do when they graduate.”

Atsumu is silent for several seconds, before he turns a truly pitiful expression on Osamu. “What do I do?” he asks, his voice small. Much smaller than Osamu’s ever heard it.

Osamu hesitates. “Just—love them, okay? Love them and keep lovin’ them until they tell ya to stop. That’s all ya gotta do.” 

“Okay,” Atsumu murmurs. “Okay.” 

Osamu gazes at his brother, thinks about that odd look on Kita’s face, and he wonders if he’s just given his brother truly terrible advice. He wonders if he’s just set Atsumu on the path to destruction, the path to heartbreak. Atsumu really loves Kita, as much as it pains Osamu to think about. If Kita leaves him, Atsumu will be inconsolable. 

Osamu can’t help but remember his conversation with Kita from weeks ago, when they encouraged him to tell Atsumu everything he’s been worrying about lately. He hadn’t intended to ignore Kita’s advice, but he’d never been able to find a good time to get Atsumu to really listen to him, and he can’t say something like this in passing—Atsumu would never forgive him if Osamu treated this like some small thing.

If Atsumu would be inconsolable if Kita left him, what will happen when  _ Osamu  _ leaves him? Will he ever be the same? Will he ever recover?

Will he ever forgive Osamu?

Fear twists in Osamu’s gut, at the same time thunder claps somewhere beyond the four walls of their bedroom. Osamu opens his mouth to say something, but the words get caught in his throat when he looks at Atsumu and realizes—

Atsumu fell asleep. 

Osamu sighs. Maybe he’ll tell him tomorrow.

-

Atsumu doesn’t go to Onigiri Miya for several weeks. He doesn’t answer Osamu’s texts. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if he wants to. They’re supposed to be independent now, aren’t they? They aren’t the same anymore, they don’t do the same stuff anymore—hell, they’re barely twins anymore. Twins only in face, only in family name. 

Osamu calls. And texts. His messages are increasingly angry. But Atsumu just sits on his couch when he isn’t at practice, sits on his couch or at his table or on his bed and he stares at Kita’s scarf and he stares at his photographs and he stares, stares, stares, because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never had time like this, time for just himself. He’s always been around other people, always had the  _ illusion  _ of having other people around him. But now that he’s alone, well and truly alone—Atsumu finds that he doesn’t know what to do. 

He should’ve at least  _ tried  _ to develop other hobbies. 

Sighing, Atsumu tips his head back and closes his eyes. Something in his apartment, an appliance of some sort, is humming quietly. He thinks it’s the fridge, but it could also be the washing machine, or maybe the dishwasher? 

It only takes a few seconds for the restlessness to return to his legs. He’s become familiar with it, in the recent weeks. Every time he sits down, every time he stands still, every time he lays in bed trying to fall asleep, his legs itch like they want to  _ run,  _ and the feeling bleeds into his arms and his torso and his fingertips until it’s all Atsumu can do not to scratch his own skin off. And there’s nothing to do to get rid of the feeling, nothing except for get up and move and be active and take his mind off of the crushing loneliness he’s suddenly surrounded by, so Atsumu stands, grabs his volleyball bag, and heads out of the apartment and toward the gym. 

There’s nobody at the gym when Atsumu arrives. It’s late, late enough that the sun outside is sinking fast toward the horizon and the only light is the fluorescent overhead bulbs in the gym, reflecting oddly off the shined floor. Atsumu changes into practice gear quickly, dragging out a net and a cart of volleyballs to his favorite court. Stringing up the net all by himself takes more time than it does usually at practice, when he has teammates to help him, but something about it feels sardonically fitting—Atsumu is completely alone now, so it’s only logical that he has to work harder to do everything by himself. 

He knows this new routine of his isn’t good for him. He knows that serving until the wee hours of th morning and then going back home to sleep for scarcely a few hours before returning to practice bright and early is going to send him to his grave, or at the very least send his volleyball career to its end, but—

The endless slam of the volleyball against the opposite side of the court is the only thing that fills the empty, echo-y space in his mind, and the repeated wind-up and release of a serve is the only thing that keeps his limbs occupied for long enough to rid him of the suffocating restlessness. It’s not good for him, it’s probably the stupidest thing he can do as a professional athlete, but he also can’t stop. Not even if he wanted to, not even if he tried. 

Which is why, when Atsumu tosses the ball up into the air and feels a slight twinge in his shoulder, he doesn’t think twice about it. It’s why, when he lands after a jump and his knee protests, nearly gives beneath him, he doesn’t let the thought of it linger in his mind. All he allows himself to think about is the ball, the serve, the court, the net. Ball, serve, court, net. Ball, serve, court, net. An endless loop, over and over and over as the pain in his limbs increases, as the logical side of his brain begs him to stop, to sit down, to take a  _ breather,  _ and as he ignores all of the warning signs. 

He’s on his thirty-seventh jump when it happens. He takes the proper amount of steps back from the end line—six, just like always—and he turns back to face the net. He lifts his arm, takes a deep breath. He tosses the ball into the air, he watches its trajectory, he runs up to hit it, he jumps, he smacks it down into the opposite court, he lands, and splitting pain erupts from his left knee. 

Atsumu collapses to the ground with a strangled yell, tears burning the backs of his eyes. His knee throbs, white hot pain pulsing throughout his whole body with every beat of his heart. He feels like he’s been shot, or like someone has stabbed a knife through his kneecap.

“Fuck,” Atsumu mutters, gingerly laying flat on his back on the floor of the gym. He stares up at the ceiling, and mentally counts the number of steps between himself and his phone. Forty-two steps between his place on the court and the spot where he’d left his phone and his water on the bench. Forty-two steps between himself and an ambulance, himself and a friend, himself and his brother, himself and someone who could  _ help.  _

Atsumu closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. Whimpers quietly as a fresh wave of pain nearly knocks him unconscious for how strong it is. He can feel himself crying, can feel tears slipping down his cheeks like raindrops down a window pane. 

He could stay here. It’s late—it won’t be long before someone arrives for morning practice. Three hours, four at the most. He could just lay here, and fall asleep, and wake up, and maybe when he wakes up someone will be here to help him and he won’t be alone anymore. He’ll have to explain what he’s been doing, how late he’s been practicing, but Atsumu is fairly certain everybody else already knows. It isn’t like he’s trying to hide it. 

Atsumu’s chest aches. He misses his high school days, for a fleeting moment. Misses Osamu storming back into the gym when Atsumu’s stayed too late to drag him home by the ear and misses having to buy Osamu pudding to make up for it. He misses the smell of his high school gym, he misses the crispness of the evening air whenever he and Osamu walked home together. The city’s air is too choked with smog form the cars and the factories and bogged down by the thousands upon thousands of other people breathing in and out to feel the same way the air did in his hometown. 

Atsumu misses childhood. He misses being young and naive and carefree and he misses running all over, misses begging his father for volleyball lessons and he misses begging Osamu to join him. He misses complaining about their matching clothes, misses complaining that Osamu got the cooler colors when their father finally gave in and varied their wardrobes. He misses middle school, and he misses his first crush, he misses the glee of finally having a  _ brother,  _ a brother who looks to him and mimics him and makes him feel special, makes him feel loved. He misses high school. he misses being a volleyball star, he misses being with all of his friends every day at practice and he misses the way it never got old, the way Suna would roll their eyes or make sarcastic comments or the way Aran always tried his hardest and encouraged people even when they missed an easy shot. 

He misses Kita. Misses the way they would smile at him in the mornings, misses the way they always liked it when he kissed their forehead, misses the way they would tangle their pinkie finger with his and offer him a covert smile, like the two of them shared some great secret. He misses seeing Kita on those cold winter afternoons, their nose bright red from the chill and the lower half of their face obscured by that blue scarf still sitting in a paper bag in Atsumu’s apartment. He misses loving them, he misses being loved.

He misses Osamu. Misses the way Osamu always made room for Atsumu on his bed, just in case Atsumu was feeling particularly clingy. Misses the way Osamu used to offer him a bite of his pudding, just one, because he knew Atsumu liked it. Misses the way Osamu used to share his earbuds with Atsumu and show him new songs that he picked up from YouTube or from Suna or from a radio, misses the way Osamu would knock his head against Atsumu’s shoulder like an affectionate cat, because Osamu was never good at asking for a hug when he wanted one, when he needed one.

He misses his twin brother, his very best friend. 

Atsumu sighs softly, and he knocks his head gently against the gym floor, a small  _ thud  _ resulting from it. It won’t bruise, he didn’t hit hard enough for that, but it’s enough to cause him pain, enough to reprimand himself for ever thinking he could survive on his own. 

Osamu may be fine with the independence, Osamu may be thriving, but Atsumu never will. Atsumu’s too much of a coward to ever be happy without a safety net to fall back on.

Atsumu will wait for someone to find him in the morning. Privately, he thinks that it’s possible the pain will kill him in the meantime. At least then, he won’t have to keep living like this.

-

Atsumu is late. Which isn’t entirely unusual—he’s late all the time. But he was supposed to be on a date with Kita, and Kita always makes sure Atsumu gets home at a reasonable hour. They’re chivalrous like that. 

So when 6 PM comes and goes, Osamu doesn’t think much of it. 7 PM, he thinks, is a little odd, but again, he continues reading his book without a whole lot of worry. 8 PM makes Osamu pause, because this is the latest Kita’s ever kept Atsumu, and then when the clock hits 9 PM, Osamu knows that something is wrong. 

He puts a bookmark in to save his place before tossing his book aside, grabbing a coat as he exits his bedroom. Atsumu is not in the living room, or in the kitchen, or any of his usual haunts within the apartment, so Osamu hollers to his father that he’s leaving and practically runs out the door, because there are no messages from either Atsumu nor Kita waiting for him on his phone, and he has no idea where his brother is.

The first place Osamu checks is the school. Sometimes, Atsumu and Kita meet up at the school before dates, because it’s easier than going to either home. But when Osamu walks through the courtyard, past Atsumu’s favorite bench and Kita’s favorite tree, neither of them are to be found. The gym where volleyball practice is held is dark, empty, and locked, and Osamu even checks the parking lot before he supposes Atsumu must be somewhere else. 

Osamu wracks his brain, wondering where on earth his brother could be, before it hits him—

The park they used to go to as children. Atsumu always goes there when there’s something wrong and he doesn’t want to go home.

By the time Osamu reaches the park, the stars are shining brilliantly in the night sky and the clock on Osamu’s phone tells him it’s nearing 10 PM. Osamu flicks on his flashlight, scanning the park for any signs of life, anywhere his twin brother could be. It isn’t until he reaches the swingset that he sees a silhouette sitting alone on the very last swing, swaying back and forth slightly. The movement is so miniscule, Osamu wouldn’t have noticed were it not for the squeaking of the swing’s hinges. 

A closer look tells Osamu that it’s his twin sitting on that swing, so he slips his phone into his pocket and approaches slowly. He makes noise as he walks, in hopes that he won’t startle Atsumu too much—Atsumu seems too out of it to notice Osamu’s presence as he normally would.

Osamu stops a few feet in front of Atsumu, lifting his foot to nudge Atsumu’s leg. The swing pushes away from him, and Atsumu doesn’t stir. “‘Tsumu,” Osamu calls. Still, no response. Osamu frowns. “‘Tsumu, c’mon. Talk to me.” 

Atsumu’s head is angled toward the ground, so Osamu can’t make out his face. But he lets out a small sniffle, which simultaneously terrifies Osamu and tells him everything he needs to know.

“Yer late, yanno,” Osamu says. “Dad’s not gonna be happy ya broke curfew.”

Atsumu sniffles, louder this time, and wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. Ordinarily, Osamu might call him gross, or uncivilized, but he’s getting the feeling that now is not the time to be insulting Atsumu. “‘Tsumu,” he repeats, a note of desperation in his voice. “What’s goin’ on?”

Finally, Atsumu lifts his head. His eyes are red and puffy and his face is blotchy, streaked with tear tracks that have long since dried. His hair is ratty and messy, and Osamu guesses Atsumu’s been fidgeting with it all night and all afternoon, ruffling it and tugging on it the way he always does when he’s upset. There’s a scarf in his hand, a blue one that Osamu recognizes as belonging to Kita, even though Kita clearly hasn’t been with Atsumu for several hours.

Osamu kneels down to make eye contact with Atsumu, and asks, “What happened?”

Atsumu opens and closes his mouth several times before his voice seems to return to him. “Kita dumped me.”

Osamu’s gut twists. “Oh, fuck—’M so sorry, ‘Tsumu.” 

Atsumu’s eyes turn glassy. “I loved them,” he whispers. “I  _ love  _ them.”

“I know,” Osamu breathes, feeling a restlessness in his fingers as he longs to reach out to his brother, to comfort him and hold him and make him stop  _ crying.  _ Atsumu doesn’t  _ cry.  _ Atsumu’s never supposed to cry. 

“Why did they leave me?” Atsumu asks, his voice cracking. He looks like he wants to say more, but he dissolves into hitching, ugly sobs as he curls in on himself. Osamu stands and rushes to wrap his brother in an embrace, his heart thundering in his chest. He’s never seen Atsumu like this, never seen him so utterly and completely destroyed. Then again, he’s never seen Atsumu love anyone as much as he loved Kita. 

It makes sense now, why Atsumu still has Kita’s scarf. They probably forgot it with Atsumu as some point, and Atsumu probably figured he could return it today, but was too blindsided by the breakup to remember to give it back.

Atsumu slides off the swing onto the ground, dragging Osamu down with him. He cries into Osamu’s shoulder, cries until his tears soak through Osamu’s jacket to the t-shirt beneath it, and even then he still clings to Osamu like Osamu is the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth. 

When finally Atsumu seems to calm down, his sobs reduced to sniffles and his cries reduced to soft whimpers, Osamu eases up on the hug and moves back slightly, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe Atsumu’s tears. He fixes Atsumu’s hair, straightens his clothes, smooths the wrinkles out of Atsumu’s shirt, before finally he sits back on his heels and lets Atsumu hold his hand. Atsumu stares blankly at the ground, squeezing Osamu’s hand every once in a while.

“They left me,” Atsumu says eventually. There’s a certain hollowness to his voice, a certain hollowness that Osamu decides he despises.

“I know,” Osamu says. 

Atsumu swallows. “I loved them.”

“I know,” Osamu says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Atsumu squeezes his hand. “I still love them.”

Osamu presses his lips into a thin line. He rubs soft circles into Atsumu’s hand with the pad of his thumb, and he says, “I know,” because there’s nothing else left to say.

-

Atsumu is barred from practice until his doctor gives him a clean bill of health. He didn’t permanently fuck up his knee, thankfully, but the coach was furious with him for not being more careful, and he nearly scared poor Bokuto half to death when he found him. Apparently, Bokuto had thought he was dead.

The problem with this is, of course, that it leaves Atsumu exactly where he was trying to get away from: alone, entirely alone with nothing but his thoughts and his own loneliness to keep him company. Atsumu stares at the ceiling, and tries to count the grooves to pass the time.

He’s starting over for the fifth time when there’s a knock on the door. Atsumu frowns, tilting his head back to stare curiously at the door. All of his teammates are still at practice, so he isn’t entirely sure who could be on the other side. 

Heaving a sigh, Atsumu grabs his crutches and hobbles over to the door, pulling it open with a small amount of difficulty. He looks up to see who the visitor is, then pauses. 

Osamu stands outside of his door, his arms crossed over his chest and an altogether unimpressed expression on his face. He stares at Atsumu for a few moments, before he raises his eyebrows, as if to say,  _ Are you going to let me in or what? _

Atsumu steps back, and watches as Osamu walks into the apartment, still with that glint of anger in his eyes. He closes the door, before making his way back over to his couch and taking a seat. Osamu paces in front of the couch, tapping his fingers against his arm—another tic Atsumu doesn’t recognize. The observation sits uncomfortably in Atsumu’s stomach.

Finally, Osamu comes to a stop and says, “Why the fuck have ya been ignorin’ me?” 

Atsumu says nothing. 

“I’ve called!” Osamu snaps. “I’ve texted! I even sent ya a fuckin’  _ letter,  _ and  _ nothin’!  _ ‘S like I don’t even exist to ya anymore! I had to hear it from fuckin’  _ Akaashi  _ that ya got yerself injured, ‘cause ya didn’t even have the decency to  _ tell me!” _

Atsumu huffs. “Been a bit preoccupied.”

“Not to mention—ya know better than to overpractice!” Osamu continues, his voice rising. “Yer so fuckin’ stupid! Ya coulda been seriously injured! Ya coulda ended yer whole career!” 

“I know that,” Atsumu mutters, glaring at the floor. Osamu laughs, a tad hysterical. 

“Except,  _ clearly,  _ ya didn’t!” he exclaims. “Or else neither of us would be here!”

Atsumu huffs, but doesn’t say anything. He knows he was an idiot; he doesn’t need Osamu to tell him that. Something inside of him—probably that pesky wall he likes to hide his feelings behind—seems to splinter the longer Osamu looks at him like that, like he’s the world’s biggest idiot and the cruelest traitor to ever exist at the same time. He doesn’t like being on the receiving end of that look, doesn’t like thinking that there’s ever anything he could do to hurt Osamu enough to warrant a look like that.

“Ain’t we supposed to be independent now?” Atsumu snaps. “We don’t gotta talk to each other every fuckin’ minute of every fuckin’ day anymore! ‘N I sure as hell don’t need ya comin’ to my apartment to lecture me about takin’ care of myself! I can do that just fine!”

“Independence doesn’t mean ya ice me out for weeks on end!” Osamu retorts. “Independence ain’t the same as bein’ dead to each other!”

“Maybe it should be!” Atsumu says. Osamu blinks, reeling back. Atsumu heaves a breath in, two, three, and then suddenly, that splintering wall comes crashing down. “‘S not like bein’ twins ever did us any good! All it ever gave us was pain! Pain, ‘cause—’cause ya forgot who ya were, ‘n pain, ‘cause I don’t know how to be anythin’ without ya! I can’t be independent! I can’t be happy on my own! I can’t; I’ve  _ tried! _ ‘N then yer out here like nothin’s ever hurt ya a day in yer life, like yer so goddamn happy to finally be  _ away from me!  _ Was I really that horrible?”

“Of course not,” Osamu spits. 

“Then how come it’s so easy for ya?” Atsumu demands. “Why are ya so fuckin’  _ happy?” _

“I’m  _ not!”  _ Osamu explodes. “I’m not fuckin’ happy! I still don’t know who the fuck I am! I don’t know how to be a person when I’m not yer fuckin’ shadow! But at least I’m fuckin’  _ tryin’!” _

Atsumu sits, for several seconds, in stunned silence.

Osamu breathes heavily, and Atsumu watches as several emotions cross his face—first anger, then bitterness, then sadness, until finally it’s blank. Resignation. Atsumu knows that look. 

“Ya were always there for me,” Atsumu breathes, after several minutes pass in uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t like thinking about that—silence between the two of them isn’t supposed to be stifling, or suffocating. “‘Cept it was more like—more like ya made me better. ‘Cause I—I know ‘M not a great person. I’ve always known people don’t like me. But whenever I was with you—it was like ya balanced me out. Made me more tolerable. Made me—better.” He pauses, licks his lips. “What do I—what ‘m I supposed to do without ya?”

Osamu sighs softly, crossing to sit beside Atsumu on the couch. He stares down at the carpet beneath their feet, and presses his lips into a thin line, before he says, “Kita once told me that you ‘n me are different people, ‘n we always have been.” 

Atsumu frowns. “I know that—”

“”M not done,” Osamu interrupts. “They told me that—neither of us is  _ better  _ than the other. My good qualities ain’t lesser versions of yers, and yer good qualities ain’t lesser versions of mine. We’re  _ different people,  _ ‘Tsumu. That’s not a bad thing. We don’t gotta be the exact same to be brothers.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Atsumu whispers. 

Osamu knocks his head against Atsumu’s shoulder, just barely. “‘S okay. Ya still got time to learn.”

-

Two weeks after the break-up, Osamu is given a box full of everything Kita ever gave Atsumu, everything Kita ever forgot, and he is told to meet up with Kita and return it, because Atsumu can’t bear to see their face. 

The blue scarf, Osamu notices, is not in the box. 

Osamu texts Kita diligently and requests to meet up at the park between their house and the Miya apartment, because he can’t bear to see Atsumu as sad and miserable as he is, and he figures helping Atsumu out with something like this might make some of that pain go away. He hopes so, at least.

Kita agrees. Osamu leaves for the park with the box early, early enough that Atsumu hasn’t moped his way out of the bedroom for breakfast yet, but not so early that it’s unreasonable. 

Kita is already waiting at the park when Osamu arrives, sitting on a park bench and gazing absently up at the clouded sky. Osamu stops a few feet away and clears his throat to get their attention, watching as they blink back to reality and tilt their head down to look at him. They don’t smile at him, like they normally do. Their face is blank, completely devoid of emotion in a way Osamu isn’t used to. While most people at school might say Kita always looks like this, Osamu knows that isn’t true—Kita’s emotions are muted, but there is always  _ something  _ in their eyes, whether it’s happiness or annoyance or anything in between. Today, however, there is nothing behind their blank gaze. Nothing at all. 

Osamu doesn’t like it.

“You can sit,” Kita says. “Ya don’t hafta stand there.”

Osamu takes a seat on the opposite end of the bench, placing the box down in between the two of them. Kita stares down at it for several seconds before pulling it onto their lap, rifling through it. They look up after a moment, gazing blankly at Osamu. “My scarf’s not here.”

Osamu thinks back to the blue scarf clutched in Atsumu’s hand the day Kita dumped him, thinks back to the scarf sitting on Atsumu’s dresser where Osamu left it when they finally arrived home that night, thinks back to the scarf sitting there every day until this morning when Osamu noticed it was gone and Atsumu was lumped in his own bed instead of Osamu’s, his back to the rest of the room, likely holding something close to his chest. 

But instead of telling Kita about any of it, he simply says, “What scarf?”

Kita stares at him for several long seconds, before they turn away again without so much as a sigh. 

“I gotta ask,” Osamu finally says, after the two of them sit in silence for several minutes. He doesn’t look at Kita when he says it, simply gazes out at the park and watches the wind tickle the grass, the trees, the birds in the sky. Kita hums a flat note in response, waiting for Osamu to continue. “Why’d ya do it?” 

Kita presses their lips into a thin line. 

“I won’t tell ‘Tsumu,” Osamu promises. “I just wanna know.”

Kita is quiet for several long moments. They lift their head toward the sky, allowing their eyes to slip closed. There’s a break in the clouds right then, and Kita’s face is bathed in the warm glow of the sun’s light, and for a moment Osamu’s breath catches in his throat. 

He recovers, and the clouds pass over once again, leaving Kita as shadowed as the rest of the world once more. They breathe deeply, slowly, before they open their eyes and ask, “Have ya ever loved someone before, Osamu?”

“Yes,” Osamu admits.

Kita doesn’t seem surprised. “Do ya know how it feels,” they pause, weighing their words, “to love someone more than anythin’?”

Osamu swallows. “Yes.”

Kita lowers their head and turns to face him. “And do ya know how it feels to know that that person doesn’t love ya as much as ya love them?”

Osamu says nothing. His tongue feels drier than sandpaper, heavier than lead. He should say something, probably—that’s not the kind of thing one leaves hanging—but every word he’s ever learned leaves him all at once.

“I’m not like Atsumu,” Kita says. “I don’t live and breathe for volleyball the way he does. And when I become a rice farmer, and he becomes a pro volleyball player—he’d never be satisfied with me, because I would want him home for me to hold and he would want to be practicin’ and I would hold him back. I love him. But continuin’ to love him—I think that would kill me.”

For one terrible moment, Osamu understands Kita perfectly. For one terrible moment, Osamu is on Kita’s side of this break-up. For one terrible, terrible moment—Osamu thinks continuing to stand at Atsumu’s side is going to kill him, too.

“Don’t stay with him,” Kita says suddenly. Osamu frowns. “I know ya think ya have to, ‘cause he’s yer brother ‘n brothers stick together, but—yer different people, Osamu. Yer made for different things.”

Osamu presses his lips into a thin line and says nothing. Kita turns to him, their gaze desperate. 

“Atsumu can survive on his own,” they say. “But I don’t know if you can survive in the shadow of his spotlight. Don’t stay for him, if it means it’ll ruin you.”

Kita takes their things and leaves, and Osamu watches them go until long after they’ve disappeared around a corner. He sits on the bench and he stares, because Kita’s words have cut him to his core and he doesn’t know what to do. 

Osamu has never truly understood Kita, in all the time he’s known them. But he thinks he might be starting to. He thinks the two of them might be more similar than he’s ever given them credit for.

And that scares him.

-

The healing process is weird. Some days, Atsumu feels as though nothing is wrong at all, like he never injured his knee in the first place. Other days, the pain is all-encompassing, mind-numbing. On the worst days, it’s all Atsumu can do to stay awake, much less feed himself and do his physical therapy exercises. 

It’s on an in-between day that he gets a visitor. Visitors aren’t all that unusual; Atsumu’s friends and teammates come by to check on him every couple of days, mostly to make sure he hasn’t rotted away in a puddle of self-pity. 

Which—Atsumu doesn’t blame them for worrying that might happen. 

And because visitors aren’t an odd occurrence, Atsumu doesn’t think twice about getting up to let whoever it is into the apartment building. It’s a few minutes later that there’s a knock at the door, and Atsumu gets up to pull it open. He’s mentally running through a list of who it could be, who’s most likely to show up without texting or calling first, but everything comes to a screeching halt when he sees the person standing on the other side of his door.

“Kita,” he says, breathless. “What’re ya doin’ here?”

“I came to visit,” Kita replies. “I heard ya were injured. May I come in?”

Atsumu steps back and wordlessly gestures for Kita to come inside, closing the door behind them. Kita lingers in the entrance for a moment, before Atsumu hobbles over to the couch and pats the space next to him. Kita takes a seat a respectable distance away, their eyes scanning the sparsely decorated room. 

“Ya don’t spend a whole lotta time here, do ya?” Kita asks. 

“No,” Atsumu agrees. “This is the most time I’ve spent here since movin’ in.”

Kita hums softly. “‘S not that bad, is it?”

“No,” Atsumu replies. “Not career-endin’, if that’s what ya mean. Still hurts like a bitch, though.”

“I’ve heard knees are one of the worst body parts to injure,” Kita says. “Even though athletes tend to have a higher pain tolerance than the average citizen.”

Atsumu snorts, prompting Kita to send him a funny look. Atsumu tries to wave it off, chuckling softly. “Nothin’, nothin’, ‘s just—ya always had a random fact like that. I dunno why I thought ya’d stop knowin’ everythin’.” 

Kita blinks, then smiles softly. “I don’t know everythin’,” they say. “Just—”

“Most things,” Atsumu finishes. “I remember.”

Kita hums again, a longer note this time. They tap their fingertips against their knees, gazing out at Atsumu’s living room. There really isn’t much to it—a TV, an armchair, a couch. The TV rests on a folding table that wasn’t made to hold very much weight; Atsumu can tell by the way it groans every once in a while. He always meant to buy decor, to turn this place into more of a home than a temporary living space, but—

He never had time. 

“How’ve ya been?” Atsumu asks. “We never got around to the pleasantries last time.”

Kita nods. “No, we didn’t, did we?” they pause. “I’m good. I got ducks for my rice field. Would ya like to see pictures?”

“D’ya even hafta ask?” Atsumu replies, scooting over as Kita pulls out their phone. Kita unlocks their phone and pulls up a photo album full of fluffy yellow ducklings, all of them getting into mischief in or around Kita’s rice field. There’s a video of one of them quacking incessantly at Kita’s back door, waiting to be let inside with Kita as Kita tells it that it belongs outside with its friends. Atsumu laughs, and smiles, and nods in all the right places, and for just a brief moment, interacting with Kita feels completely normal and natural. For a moment, there is no water under the bridge, there is no shared past between the two of them aside from former teammates. 

For just a moment, their past doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, and Atsumu wonders if this is what recovery feels like.

“How’s yer new team?” Kita asks, tucking their phone back into their pocket. 

Atsumu thinks for a moment. “Mm, they’re good. Kinda crazy, but I like it.”

“Ya must fit right in, then,” Kita says, hiding a covert smile. 

Atsumu gasps, mock-offended. “‘M not crazy!”

“Okay,” Kita says, still grinning. “Whatever helps ya sleep at night.”

Atsumu huffs. After a few moments, he smiles softly, thinking of his team. “They’re all real good, yanno. Bokkun’s got this monster spike—I don’t even know how he does it. ‘N Omi’s got these crazy flexible wrists ‘n he’s so good at spikin’ ‘n stuff, even though I can tell he hates all the germs. He’s gettin’ better ‘bout it, though.” Atsumu’s grin widens. “Oh, ‘n Hinata—God, he’s only gotten better since high school! Can ya believe it?”

“I could buy that,” Kita replies. There’s a certain light in their eyes that Atsumu hasn’t seen in so long, he almost forgot what it looks like. It suits them. “Tell me more.”

“He learned how to receive!” Atsumu crows. “His receives are so fuckin’ crazy! He can dig it up from almost anywhere, I dunno how he does it! Oh, oh, and he’s still got that crazy quick, ‘n he’s even learned to set and serve! ‘S like he just took his high school self and blew it outta the water!”

“Seems like you’re having fun,” Kita observes. 

“I am,” Atsumu agrees. “I really am. Which is weird—’cause I thought I’d hate bein’ on a team without ‘Samu. No matter who my teammates were.”

Kita hums. “Sounds to me like ya don’t need Osamu as much as ya thought ya did.”

Atsumu frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. “Whaddya mean?”

Kita shrugs. “Yer happy, ain’t ya?”

“Yeah?” Atsumu replies. “What’s that got to do with anythin’?” 

Kita chuckles. “If yer happy, then what more could ya possibly need?”

It takes a moment for Kita’s words to sink in, takes a minute for the meaning behind them to truly dawn on Atsumu. Atsumu has been a part of the MSBY Black Jackals for two years by this point. Atsumu has been without Osamu for even longer. Atsumu’s teammates like him, they consider him a friend, they come to visit him and check up on him when he’s injured because they want to make sure he’s doing well and that he’ll recover soon. They  _ love him.  _

And they’ve never known him with Osamu. They’ve never seen the version of him who exists at Osamu’s side, the version of him Atsumu always thought was better. 

Atsumu is  _ happy.  _ All on his own. 

“Holy fuck,” Atsumu breathes. Kita laughs quietly, shaking their head. 

“I think ya get too caught up in yer own head sometimes,” they say. 

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, unable to wipe the grin off of his face. “Me too.” 

If someone were to have told him months ago, years ago, or even on the very day Kita dumped him, that he would be sitting here smiling as Kita tells him about the latest rice harvest, he thinks he would’ve told them they were insane. 

But the afternoon light streams in through his living room window, and it warms Atsumu from the inside out. As he sits next to Kita, watches the way Kita’s mouth moves and watches the small little gestures Kita makes as they talk, all Atsumu feels is content, and all he can think is that this is what healing must be like.

-

The day Osamu finally confesses is as unremarkable as the day he realized his true feelings about volleyball. It’s a Tuesday—a gloomy one at that—and practice is cancelled because one of the first years got at least five people sick and the coach didn’t want to risk anymore spread of the illness. Atsumu is grumbling as he stalks ahead of Osamu on the sidewalk, his hands stuffed into his pockets and every footstep pounding the concrete as hard as is safe. Atsumu is clearly upset, Osamu would be able to tell even if he  _ didn’t  _ know Atsumu better than he knows himself, but Osamu is just—neutral, he supposes is a good word for it. 

It’s been weeks since his conversation with Kita, since the break-up. Atsumu has almost entirely recovered by now, seems mostly back to his usual self except Osamu notices that Atsumu’s loverboy tendencies have all but disappeared. As if they were no stronger than a candle flame, his break up with Kita extinguished every lovestruck expression Atsumu used to have in abundance. Osamu can’t tell if he misses it, but he knows for sure that the house is much quieter when Atsumu isn’t whining about his latest crush. 

Osamu has rehearsed this moment what seems like a thousand times in his head. He’s run through every possible scenario, every response Atsumu could possibly give him. But as much as he’s practiced, he still finds that his hands grow sweaty and his stomach ties itself into knots at the mere thought of  _ actually  _ saying any of it to Atsumu. Atsumu, as much as Osamu loves him, is not known to be lenient. He’ll probably take Osamu’s quitting volleyball to be a personal slight, will wonder why Atsumu wasn’t good enough, will wonder if or how he could’ve made Osamu stay. Osamu knows Atsumu will think about these things, just like he knows that as much as Atsumu will pretend—

He might never forgive Osamu for something like this. 

When they finally arrive home, Atsumu stomps into the house and kicks off his shoes, storming toward the kitchen for something to eat. Osamu toes off his own shoes much quieter than Atsumu had, before dropping his bag and following his brother into the kitchen. Atsumu is already sitting at the table, his spoon raised halfway to his mouth with a heaping of pudding sitting in the bowl of it. It’s Osamu’s pudding—his name is  _ literally  _ written on the outside of the cup—but Osamu can’t bring himself to care, knowing what he’s about to say to Atsumu. 

But Atsumu speaks before Osamu manages to gather up his courage. “Ain’t it so annoyin’ that stupid first year had to go ‘n get sick?” he demands. “‘N now he’s ruined practiced for all of us!” 

“Ain’t ya the one who tried to go to practice with a cold?” Osamu drawls, opening the fridge and scanning its contents. He’s too nervous to eat, really, but he knows that Atsumu would be suspicious if he didn’t at least pretend he wanted a snack. 

“This ain’t about me,” Atsumu mumbles, averting his eyes. Osamu stares at the back of his head for several long moments, waiting for his courage to either steel him or desert him, but his level of bravery remains stagnant. He thinks this will have to be a leap he takes himself—nobody else is around to push him off the ledge.

So, with a deep breath in to settle some of his nerves, Osamu blurts, “I’m gonna quit volleyball after high school.” 

There is a moment after he finishes speaking in which nothing moves, and time seems to have ground to a halt. A moment in which Atsumu doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even finish lifting the bite of pudding to his mouth, and Osamu remains silent, pressing his lips into a thin line and waiting for his brother to condemn him. 

Like the eye of the storm, the moment is a moment of peace, of tranquility. A safe moment. 

And then the moment ends. 

Atsumu lowers the spoon into the cup of pudding, and turns slowly in his chair to look at Osamu. There’s a grin on his face, tugging oddly at the corners of his mouth, and there’s a strange glint in his eyes, making him look almost manic. He doesn’t look like himself; he looks cold, he looks cruel. Osamu doesn’t like seeing him like this. 

Atsumu chuckles. “That’s funny,” he says. “For a minute, I almost that ya said ya were gonna quit volleyball.” 

“That is what I said,” Osamu replies, furrowing his brow. 

Atsumu pauses. He searches Osamu’s face for something—probably a sign that this is a prank, an elaborate joke, that Osamu is  _ lying— _ but his smile begins to die from his face the longer he searches for something he will not find. “Yer  _ what _ ?” he breathes, his voice colder than ice. 

Osamu swallows. “I ain’t gonna pursue volleyball after high school,” he says. “I don’t like it enough to make a career of it.”

“Well, what the fuck else are ya gonna do?” Atsumu demands, shoving his chari back to stand. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor, making Osamu wince, but Atsumu doesn’t even seem to notice. “It’s not like yer good at anythin’ else!”

Osamu reels as though he’s been slapped. “How the hell would  _ you  _ know what I’m good at?” he retorts. “Ya don’t care about me when I ain’t playin’ volleyball!”

“That’s not true,” Atsumu protests, but Osamu laughs humorlessly and cuts him off. 

“Ain’t it?” he asks sardonically. “All ya’ve ever cared ‘bout me for was my ability to hit a fuckin’ volleyball. ‘S like ya got volleyball on the brain all the time—if it ain’t wearin’ a volleyball uniform, you don’t even  _ see it.” _

“We are supposed to go pro  _ together _ ,” Atsumu hisses. “I can’t believe yer gonna go ‘n leave me like this!” 

He glares at Osamu for a second, two, before he spins on his heel and storms out of the kitchen, Osamu following close behind. 

“Why can’t ya support  _ my dreams?”  _ Osamu cries. “Why’s it always gotta be ‘bout you, ‘n what  _ you  _ want?”

Atsumu whirls around. “‘Cause I thought it was what  _ we  _ wanted! It was never just  _ my  _ dream!”

“Didya ever stop to think that it’s  _ always  _ been yer dream, ‘n ya just never thought to ask if it was mine, too?” Osamu demands. “Oh, right, ‘course ya didn’t, ‘cause ya think the goddamn world revolves around you ‘n only you!” 

“That is  _ not true,”  _ Atsumu insists. 

“When was the last time ya asked me what  _ I  _ thought? What  _ I  _ wanted?” Osamu snaps. “Can ya even remember? I can’t!” 

“Yer  _ nothin’  _ without volleyball,” Atsumu spits.

“I know ya aren’t,” Osamu fumes. “But we ain’t the same fuckin’  _ person _ .”

Now it’s Atsumu’s turn to look like he’s been slapped. He narrows his eyes, ice burning like fire in his glare. “Ya don’t know what yer sayin’,” he insists. “Volleyball’s all yer good for. Yer nothin’ without volleyball—yer nothin’ without  _ me!”  _

“Well, then maybe I wanna make somethin’ of myself!” Osamu exclaims. “Maybe I don’t wanna spend the rest of my life sittin’ in  _ yer  _ shadow!” 

“Yer makin’ a mistake,” Atsumu warns.

Osamu quirks an eyebrow. “Am I? Or am I saving myself from the likes of  _ you?”  _

Atsumu falters. “Yer—what?” 

“I know why Kita dumped ya,” Osamu spits. “I know what chased them away. I know it was all yer fault. I know  _ everything.”  _

Atsumu opens and closes his mouth several times, but he never manages to say anything. Finally, he sets his jaw, narrows his eyes, and hisses, “Yer lyin’.”

“‘M not,” Osamu retorts. “They told me when I returned their things.”

“And ya never told me?” Atsumu asks, his voice breaking slightly. He’s shaking—whether it’s with anger or sadness, Osamu can’t tell. A small ping of concerns tags his brain, but he brushes it away, too caught up in his own frustrations to worry about his brother.

“They made me promise not to,” Osamu replies. “I don’t break my promises.”

“Yer about to,” Atsumu argues. 

“Am I?” Osamu asks, tilting his head to the side. “Or ‘m I just tryin’ to rub it in yer face? Am I just lording it over ya, ‘cause its the only way you’ll ever fuckin’ listen to me?”

Atsumu works his jaw. “Yer a lot crueler than I gave ya credit for.” 

Osamu narrows his eyes. “Learned from the best.” 

They stare at each other, and there’s another one of those moments that passes between them—a moment of peace, in which there are no more barbs thrown at each other, no more hatred and anger and venomous words and jabs aimed to maim the other. There is a moment, in which they stand on opposite sides of a battlefield, weapons drawn, and neither of them pulls the trigger just yet. A moment in which every childhood memory is brought to the surface and burned to ash, memories of building sand castles at the beach and stealing each other’s ice cream, memories of crawling into each other’s beds after a nightmare and memories of coloring purple on the other’s bright red drawing to see him cry. Memories of competing for their father’s attention, their teacher’s affection, their friend’s admiration. Memories of holding each other’s hands as they plunge deeper into the dark forest they aren’t supposed to to wander into, memories of getting so lost their father has to send a search party and the two of them are grounded for weeks afterward. Memories of trying to switch places, only for their father to be able to tell by the slope of Osamu’s eyes that he isn’t Atsumu, however good his impression is. Memories of love and hate, of playfulness and pain, of tricycles and tears, of grandparents and gelatin molds, of brothers and best friends and a bond stronger than diamond.

Memories of a shared past, memories like photographs—as precious as glittering gemstones, as flammable as paper.

Osamu sets his jaw. Tips his head further down, sharpens his glare like a throwing knife. 

Atsumu cocks an eyebrow like a shotgun, narrows his eyes like he’s looking through the scope of a sniper. 

Aim. 

“I think,” Osamu says, his voice measured, “that ya know yer worthless without volleyball, and yer worthless without  _ me,  _ ‘n ya don’t want me to leave ya ‘cause ya can’t live with knowin’ that the only reason ya ever had the spotlight was ‘cause the rest of the world didn’t like  _ me.”  _

“Yer crazy,” Atsumu says, but Osamu can hear it in his voice—he’s a boiling pot without a lid, and Osamu is holding his hand far too close for comfort. A ticking time bomb, and Osamu is just waiting to be caught in the blast, tiptoeing ever closer to a hidden mine.

“Next time ya hit rock bottom—and there  _ will  _ be a next time,” Osamu seethes, “just  _ see  _ if I come ‘n help ya out.”

Fire. 

Atsumu stares at him for several long moments, before finally he spits, “Yer dead to me,” and stalks out of the room.

The sound of the door slamming echoes on an endless loop in Osamu’s mind, an all-encompassing, mind-numbing, world-shattering noise. The final gunshot, the last blow delivered in battle. 

In the ringing silence that follows, Osamu breathes in, and tips his head back toward the ceiling. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He feels a wave of relief wash over him like the spray of a warm shower after a long practice, the gentle tide lapping at the shore, a cold rainstorm at the end of a year-long drought. A weight lifts off of his shoulders, a weight heavier than a world’s worth of gravity, and Osamu stands straight for the first time in maybe his whole life. The vice around his chest finally releases, and Osamu  _ breathes  _ for the first time in seventeen years. Like a drowning man finally breaching the surface, Osamu stands there and breathes and breathes and breathes and nearly cries for how good the oxygen feels on his starved lungs.

He is  _ free.  _ He just wishes it hadn’t cost him his brother to get here.

-

Atsumu follows Osamu off of the train and onto the platform, pouting slightly at the back of his brother’s head. Osamu took it upon himself to walk with Atsumu on his way to practice this morning, now that Atsumu has finally recovered from his knee injury. 

“Ya didn’t have to come with me, yanno,” he says. 

“I know,” Osamu replies. “But I didn’t trust that ya wouldn’t go ‘n get yerself hit by a car or somethin’. Ya seem like the idiot to do somethin’ like that the first day back from a medical leave.”

“Fuck off,” Atsumu grumbles. 

“Nah,” Osamu says lightly. “I don’t think I will.” 

Atsumu huffs, but argue any further.

“I was thinkin’ of goin’ home for dinner this weekend,” Osamu starts, as the two of them exit the train station and begin the walk down the street toward the gym. 

Atsumu grunts. “What’s the occasion?”

Osamu is quiet for long enough that Atsumu frowns and shoots him a glance before refocusing his gaze forward. 

“What is it?” Atsumu asks, nudging him. “Yer not dyin’, are ya?”

Osamu snorts and rolls his eyes. “No, ‘M not dyin’. Dumbass—why would ya even think that?”

“‘Casue yer bein’ all weird ‘n cryptic,” Atsumu retorts. “Tell me why ya wanna go home!”

“I wanna introduce Kita to Dad,” Osamu blurts. 

Atsumu blinks. Once. Twice. “Ya mean ya haven’t already?” 

Osamu furrows his brow. “Yer not upset?”

“Why would I be?” Atsumu asks, tilting his head to the side. 

Osamu stares at him for several seconds, before he scoffs and shakes his head, turning away. They lapse into silence, Atsumu observing the other people on the street as they walk. A woman on the opposite side of the street, dressed smartly in heels and a pencil skirt, talks endlessly into an earpiece as she goes by. A man walking his dog chases the animal back onto the sidewalk from where it ran after a bird in the road. A young child begs her mother for the cupcake in the bakery window they’ve just passed. 

“‘Tsumu,” Osamu says suddenly, drawing Atsumu’s attention. “Will ya be there when I introduce Kita to Dad?”

“Sure,” Atsumu replies. “If ya pay me.”

Osamu elbows him. “‘M bein’ serious,” he says. There’s a look in his eyes that Atsumu can’t quite decipher. It isn’t desperation, it’s not pleading, but it’s—almost nervous. 

“‘Course I’ll be there,” Atsumu huffs. “But I dunno why yer worried; Dad’s gonna love Kita. Kita’s, like, the ideal significant other to introduce to yer parents.”

“I know,” Osamu says, fidgeting with his fingertips. Atsumu takes one of his hands out of his pockets and uses it to lightly hit Osamu upside the head. 

“Don’t make me bop ya again,” he says. “Quit worryin’ when there’s nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Osamu rubs his head, glaring at Atsumu, but he doesn’t say anything else. The silence returns, but it’s comfortable this time, more like a warm blanket on a cold night. Atsumu tips his head back toward the sky, feels the sun on his face, and he remembers sleeping next to Osamu in Osamu’s bed, he remembers stealing Osamu’s pudding cup from beneath his nose and getting chased all through the apartment for it, he remembers shoving Osamu back and forth on the way to and from school, he remembers Osamu laughing at him, Osamu crying because of him, Osamu hugging him and Osamu knocking his head against Atsumu’s shoulder because that’s how he shows affection.

He remembers, abruptly, everything it is that he loves about his brother, his stupid, annoying, insufferable little brother, and he remembers that it was never their similarities that he loved. Them being the same was never the important part. Atsumu wonders when he forgot that, how he could  _ let himself  _ forget that. 

Osamu snags Atumus’s wrist. “Hey, dumbass,” he calls. “Ya almost passed the fuckin’ gym.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says blinking himself out of his thoughts. “Whoops.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Dumbass.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice calling, “Atsumu!” 

Glancing around, Atsumu catches sight of a familiar orange blur darting through the morning crowd toward him just before he’s assaulted with an armful of Hinata Shouyou. Hinata wraps his arms around Atsumu’s shoulders, his legs around Atsumu’s waist, hugging him tighter than what Atsumu would’ve thought was possible. Atsumu wheezes, lifting his arms to hug him back before Hinata drops back to the ground and smiles brightly up at him. 

“I missed you!” Hinata chirps. “Nobody sets like you do, Atsumu! You gotta let me smash some today! Please?” 

Atsumu blinks. “Uh, sure?” 

Hinata cheers, hugging Atsumu again. He’s very touchy, Atsumu is noticing. Was he always this touchy?

“Don’t forget,” Osamu says, drawing Atsumu’s attention once more. “Dad’s. This weekend.”

“Got it,” Atsumu replies. He watches Osamu turn to walk away, hesitating, before he calls, “‘Samu!”

Osamu stops and turns to look at him. 

“I love ya,” Atsumu says. “Dumbass.” 

Osamu scoffs. “Yeah, whatever,” he drawls. “I love ya, too.” 

He turns to leave, and Atsumu follows Hinata out of the sun and into the gym, Hinata chattering the whole way. Contentment rests in his chest, warm and heavy, and as Hinata turns to shoot Atsumu one of his megawatt smiles, Atsumu’s heart flutters in his chest in the softest way and Atsumu thinks that maybe it’s okay he and Osamu aren’t the same, because Hinata says that nobody sets like Atsumu. Including Osamu. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” Hinata asks. 

“Nothin’,” Atsumu lies. “I was listenin’ to yer story. What happened after ya threw a volleyball at Tsukishima’s head?”

Hinata grins brightly. “That’s the best part!” 

For the first time in months, years, possibly the first time in his whole life—Atsumu doesn’t feel like half of a matching set. Walking next to Hinata as he bounces and babbles and smiles brighter than the sun on a summer afternoon, Atsumu thinks that he could listen to Hinata’s stories forever, so long as he always feels this warm and nice. His teammates are waiting for them on the court, in the locker room, Hinata already wants to practice with Atsumu before they’ve even made it inside the gym, and for the first time in his whole life, Atsumu feels  _ whole.  _

All on his own.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> big big thank u to [annaer](https://twitter.com/rinpanna) for helping me with this as i agonized for several weeks in truly melodramatic fashion. i love u bunches and i would do anything for u <33
> 
> HI FRIENDS. I HAVE INARIZAKI BIAS AND I THINK ABOUT THE MIYA TWINS ON A DAILY BASIS SO OF COURSE I ENDED UP WRITING ANOTHER MIYA TWINS FIC
> 
> I AM SORRY IF I WOUNDED U WITH THIS FIC PLS REST ASSURED I HURT ME TOO
> 
> i love writing canon compliant things that are incredibly gay. it pleases me
> 
> as always, come hang out w me on tumblr @fake-charliebrown, twt @fakecharlieb, or check out my [carrd](https://fakecharliebrown.carrd.co/)


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